two bit town
by MarginalMary
Summary: A tragic trio buried in a two bit town. HitsuKarin.
1. 0 freshman year

I don't own Bleach.

* * *

_This is my town._

_Our town where she ran me ragged._

_She was always running._

_Running around in circles in two bit town._

_Never getting anywhere._

_Because the end felt a lot like the beginning._

_Never going anywhere._

_Running around in circles in two bit town_

_I am always running._

_Our town where I run you ragged._

_This is your town.

* * *

_

Welcome to _two bit town_,

Mare


	2. 1 hamster wheel

~~_freshman year~~_

I yank the brush through my bramble hair.

It's always an odd thing to watch, how the rat's nest becomes severe, so straight. It's like magic—the contrast between the tidy roots and chaotic tips when the brush is halfway through.

One day soon, I'm going to fuck conformity. I'm going to _let it fly_, which would be ironic in my case because my kind of bed-head resembles hurricane-force-winds-head.

After I finish yanking my hair into submission—the sum total of three minutes ruthless effort—I take a second to scrutinize my reflection.

I'm so pale—like born without melanin pale. And I'm small featured and heart faced like a baby angel.

An albino cherub. Who said god doesn't have a sense of humor?

My jet hair does nothing to minimize my pallor. It's darker than jet, like a black hole absorbing light. When I play soccer on cloudless days, I feel like my brain is evaporating.

To prevent heatstroke from benching me this season, I had to grow my hair out a bit so I could capture the inky mass in a ponytail. Truth be told, the change in hairstyle wasn't as awful as I had imagined. I'm still a person not a _girl._

As has become a habit, I cajole my stubborn locks into a messy bun.

Perusing the general objectionable-ness of my face, I take solace in the only feature I really like. My eyes.

They are blue, the exact color that comes to mind when someone says 'azure.' I've seen all the variations in different faces, but I have never seen blue eyes as unpolluted as mine. My peepers don't have a hint of gray or a smidgen of green. Not a fleck of violet.

They're genuine. Genuinely blue.

And whenever I look at them, I think of the person who gave them to me.

Masaki Kurosaki.

My mom had blue eyes. Eyes like mine.

Of course, I don't remember them. Mom died when I was three, and in my memories, she's always in shadow. And god be damned if she wasn't so happy all the time; in photographs, she smiles so big her eyes are closed, all toothy and squinty.

Dad told me that Mom had big blues peepers, but he never goes into much detail. I kind of hope my eyes are a _little_ different than hers. I don't want my dad and my brother to look at me and see Mom looking back. That would be… unkind.

On this fine Monday morn, thinking of Mom reminds me of _the big event._ Today is August 16, 2010. My first day of high school.

More specifically, today in my first day at Karakura High School, home of the Karakura Tigers.

My whole family went to Karakura High just like everybody else in who lives in this two bit town.

Living in Karakura is like living in hamster wheel. Everybody does the same thing their parents did. Everyone goes through the motions of 'this is my life, so I'm going do it my way,' but few Karakurains ever do anything original.

I'm not fighting the inevitable. I have no interest in bucking that particular system—a rare thing as I don't abide any other systems—because my mom was awesome, and if grow up to be half the woman she was, I'll die happy.

So, I have plotted my course accordingly. I'm trying for all Mom's records.

When Mom went to Karakura High, she made the Tigers volleyball team her freshman year. She was president of her junior class and one of the class elected speakers at graduation. My badass mom graduated _summa cum laude._

And Mom gave the freshman commencement address. Coincidentally, the same address I should be making today.

Alas, it was not meant to be. I missed the top score on the entrance exam by three tenths of a point. I missed one questions out of three hundred. Somewhere out there in the apathetic universe, an anonymous brain trust is eating his breakfast and going over speech notes because he scored a perfect one hundred percent.

But I'm not disappointed. Not mad.

I didn't rip my results into confetti and light the pieces on fire. And I _definitely_ did not go downstairs at three o'clock in the morning and apologize to my dead mom's poster. I didn't.

Scanning my double in the mirror, I watch my mouth settle into a hard line.

Ludicrously, it makes me think of Yuzu, and the thought calms me because she's my metaphorical toothpaste, rinsing out my dirty mouth, washing away the sour taste of jealousy.

Our mouths are about as different as our brains. Mine are primary red; hers are pastel pink.

We're twins, but Yuzu and I are completely different. Yuzu is all things pleasant and good and familiar and soft. I'm quirky and smart and deliberate and contrary. We make sense together, though. Yuzu is the other half of my world.

I lift a black brow, watching the change distort my mirror-twin, wondering why I haven't heard...

"Karin! Breakfast!"

Ah, there it is.

Yuzu probably woke up at dawn to make lunches and breakfast for the Kurosaki clan. She probably folded laundry while the biscuit dough was rising.

Yuzu hates shortcuts like pop-and-bake products. I can't make an unassisted sandwich.

I smile, imagining Yuzu all dressed and primped—her ribbon tied just so as she counts off all the things left to be done before we leave. Yuzu doesn't realize she shouldn't have to count, that she shouldn't have to do those things at all.

I put the brush down with more force than I intended.

After deciding my new loafers are chaffing my ankles, my new skirt is too short, and my new blazer is too confining, I conclude that I'm rife with bad omens.

Studying my reflection with abysmal finality, I mutter, "You'll do," straightening my red tie just a bit.

Then, I leave the bathroom, tossing my towel over the shower curtain rod without even looking. I close the door, breathing "score" without enthusiasm.

On the landing, I grab my new schoolbag, a one shoulder androgynous thing with lots of zippers. No flowery mawkishness this year because I bought it myself with the money from my summer job at Urahara Candy Confectionery. Dad had no say because I'm a 9th grader. How the piteous man wept.

I heft the unfamiliar weight with equanimity. I have no idea if my bag will come to represent good or evil.

For the first time in recent memory, I'm leaving my soccer ball at home. A new school means I have to wait until I've actually made the team before I go around flaunting the damn thing.

_No need to be presumptuous… drat._

So, I trudge, one louder than necessary footfall after another, down to the living room.

Plopping down at the table, I tuck into my eggs, biscuit, bacon, and hash browns—this model breakfast generously provided by my sister.

Yuzu hovers, unintentionally obtrusive, waiting for the verdict. This used to be Ichigo's job—validating Yuzu's quest for culinary perfection. But he's living in an apartment two and half hours east with Chad and Uryuu. They have to fend for themselves. The idea of ingesting anything the three of them didn't burn beyond recognition provokes a vindictive smirk.

_"Superior_ fair, Yuzu!" I declare. "Did you order in?" I turn to her with a solicitous expression.

Her gentle eyes widen with hurt, so I nudge her playfully. Realizing I was only joking—my attempt at humor has careened over her head—Yuzu grins ruefully.

Abruptly, she pauses, her grin frozen, distracted by something over my shoulder.

I sigh, truly aggrieved.

Wham. Slam. "Urgg!"

"Morning," I drawl, lowering my elbow inconspicuously, unaffected by my father jumping up and down nursing his bleeding nose. This, too, used to be Ichigo's job.

My dad never learns, and I never miss.

Although his voice is muddled, I still comprehend.

"—rin! Wha hab I done to deserb —uch weatment? Don you lobe me, nee-more!"

It's the same greeting every goddamn morning.

And Yuzu goes running behind the bar to the kitchen, her freshly-baked colored hair flying. She sprints back, a rag held high like a trophy.

"Oh, Dad," she frets, trying to keep him still long enough to wipe off the blood, "Every morning you manage to hurt yourself."

Yuzu is exasperated. And delusional.

A more accurate assessment of the preceding would be: '_oh, Dad, every morning Karin manages to hurt you.'_

But the point is lost on the entire family.

Yuzu shifts uneasily, dancing on her left foot then her right. She eyes me questioningly, silently asking me why I can't just ignore him.

Yuzu doesn't understand that I'm merely preempting the inevitable. Dad never fails to say something repugnant, something truly mortifying and deserving of violence. A bloody nose is the lesser of two evils: a preemptive strike.

Yuzu frowns helplessly.

Again, point lost—this time, lost on me.

I eat my excellent breakfast to the soundtrack of my father bemoaning my cruelty. Where did he go wrong? Am I attention deprived? Am I a repressed anarchist? Am I a mutant ninja turtle?

I snort into my orange juice and promptly begin to choke.

Yuzu cries affright and promptly begins to beat me on the back. _Holy hell, the girl doesn't know her own strength!_

Dad looks on with vengeful glee because he knows I'm not going to do a damn thing about it. _Bastard._

Eventually, the chaos lulls, and everyone wonders why Yuzu never seems to eat her breakfast. No one cares if Dad goes hungry.

"Hey, Yuzu, have you eaten your breakfast?" I wonder aloud, gesturing vaguely with my fork.

Yuzu finds her fingernails suddenly fascinating, stuttering, "I—no—I mean yes… I, um… sort of taste test as I go."

I smirk. She never lets _me_ taste test. In fact, my knuckles have been abused by her wooden spoon on more than one occasion. Before I can tease, Yuzu retreats behind the bar, doubtlessly to tidy the kitchen before we head out.

Two pieces of bacon later, Dad clears his throat, and I survey his face shrewdly. His toffee eyes are devoid of ridiculousness; so he must mean business. It's not everyday my dad is normal. I feel a speech coming.

Thus, I give him my full attention.

"Yuzu?" He calls, waiting patiently while she hangs her apron up and sits down beside me.

My eyes never leave his serious face, and I can feel Yuzu's apprehension echo my own.

By some unfortunate convention of history, Dad's current demeanor usually bodes ill. He's only cool when bad shit goes down.

However, my fear is apparently for naught because Dad pauses to smile at us fondly. Proudly, I think.

I sit up a bit straighter.

"Today, you two are starting a new phase of life," he says, "High school is a time of change—the difference between who you want to be and who you become. Mom is gone, and Ichigo is a major disappointment."

Briefly, we shake our heads—not because he's actually a disappointment. On the contrary, Ichigo's enrolled at a first-rate college. Big Bro was received an athletic scholarship for track and field _and_ boxing. He finally grew the balls to tell Rukia he loves her. He achieved the miraculous by convincing tight-ass Byakuya to let Rukia date him.

Ichigo's legendary. Superhero of the school yard.

But he doesn't live with us anymore. And it's a sign of things to come. Childhood is just a right of passage.

Dad coughs the emotion from his throat, "Ahem. I'm not prefect, but I love my girls. Do your best, and grow up strong. Listen to what's up here." He points to his head. "But don't forget what's in here." Dad points to his heart.

Yuzu starts sniffling, and I grab her hand off the table. A show of solidarity.

"I'm here if you need me, but you already know that. You are getting older; so I'll try to give you guys a bit more space and freedom." Dad sighs, looking at me pointedly.

I flush. It's irrational, but Dad has this gravity when he's _sober._

"Karin, you're moving into your brother's room."

Yuzu squeezes my hand unconsciously. She doesn't like it, but she won't argue because she knows I _want_ Ichigo's room.

My brother's gone. Moved on. It's natural progression.

But even so... he is farther away from me than ever before. There is permanence in this moment. I nod once, and it's full of emotion I won't share.

"Good, good. Second, curfew will be extended to 9 o'clock on school nights and 11 o'clock on weekends," Dad informs us beneficently.

Yuzu instantly brightens, and I start to cheer. However, something occurs to me which kills my jubilation mid-hurrah. "Wait a sec, Goat Chin. Ichigo never had a curfew at all!"

Ichigo used to run the streets with his space cadet friends into the wee hours. His nocturnal adolescence worried Yuzu tremendously. _Made me worry too—not that I have or will admit that. Ever._

Dad groans like I've just asked him for a pet alligator. I can almost see different arguments flit across his face.

'_We're girls. We can't defend ourselves. People want to talk advantage of us. The possibility of Ichigo having sex isn't even remotely as repellent as the idea of us having sex. If anything happened to us, Mom would never forgive him…'_

Still, Dad knows that I am going to murder his lame excuses before he gives them voice.

Suddenly, his face clears. Dad scratches his nose to distort his far too apparently look of triumph. "Too true, Karin, too true. And I have seen the error of my ways. I will not repeat the same mistake," he intones gravely. _Twice damned bastard._

I huff. Over my very cold, very dead body will I abide sexism and injustice; however, I won't protest today. This is all hypothetical. Until an applicable situation arises, I won't fight the Institution.

Still, Dad had better start preparing an airtight defense because we both know this isn't over.

I roll my eyes.

Just then, Yuzu stands up so fast her chair falls over backward. She turns to me, her expression graphic with distress. "We're late!" Yuzu cries, speeding around the table, thoughtless for the poor chair, intent to hug Dad tightly.

I merely right the fallen victim of her fit and grab our lunchboxes off the counter. I walk to the foyer, carrying the two lunches under my arm and shouldering my schoolbag.

I significant-nod Dad while Yuzu zooms about, checking her teddy bear backpack for everything her first day of school could require. And several things, a pair of walkie-talkies and a reel of stamps, for which I cannot—do not want to—imagine a use.

I throw Yuzu's lunchbox, bopping her on the head with it.

Her hyperventilating form instantly relaxes. Yuzu exhales, saying, "Oh, thank you, Karin. I thought I might have put it in the mailbox."

I do not ask.

Instead, I turn to the door because I can feel the old man regressing. "Oh, Masaki, our girls are so grown up! Look at them on their first day of high school. First loves and dances; Sex Ed and experimental drug use." He continues to blather on incoherently.

I toe tap, willing Yuzu to move with my mind. And she does, pausing only to pat Dad awkwardly on the forearm.

I glance at the poster of Masaki Kurosaki before I close the door behind us, wondering absurdly if she, too, thinks my skirt is too short.

Dad glances from me to Mom's poster shrewdly. "She's proud, Karin," he assures me, all serious-like, "She's really proud of you."

It's disconcerting how he can turn it on and turn it off.

Then, Dad clears his throat, tapping his watch. "You don't want to be late for the first day of the rest of your life. How sad, that would be!"

The moment is forever lost.

"I'm going, Goat Chin, I'm going," I assure him. I actually smile for the old man a split second before shutting the door. Then, I jog down the drive.

On the sidewalk, Yuzu is waiting for me, considering the weather.

Looks like it's going to rain to me.

Apparently, the sky looks rainy to _us _because Yuzu smiles at me, brimming over with smugness—the sweet, innocent kind of which I am incapable. She informs me, "I brought two umbrellas!"

I grin. "You're brilliant."

She hands the navy blue umbrella to me, keeping the purple polka-dotted monstrosity for herself. In exchange, I hand Yuzu her daisy print lunchbox.

"Oh, it was nothing!" Yuzu beams.

I drag her into a sideways hug, whispering, "You ready?"

"Sort of," she sighs noncommittally.

I pull back, smirking, holding her at arms length. "Kind of?"

"Okay, maybe a little." Yuzu grins a little, fighting it and shaking her head.

Turning right down Rukon Boulevard, I laugh, "Just ready enough then, yeah?"

Because we should have left ten minutes ago, we power walk to Karakura High School, passing all the places we've been passing all our lives.

* * *

Revised edition.

Dedication: Yemi (Your flame of the original _two bit town_ one-shot drove me to write rewrite it as a muti-fic. And later, your friendship inspired me to compile a story with a broader sensibility.)

A/N:

This is the revised edition of _two bit town. _I've spent the last two weeks editing and rewriting because, although I should have factored this in three months ago, I recently discovered a fatal flaw in my brilliant plans for the story. The concept is called 'time.' As in, I ignored it completely. The original 14 chapters covered roughly two weeks. At that pace "freshman year" would grow into a 252 chapter monstrosity. Not including holidays. Multiply that by 4 years of high school, and you get 1008 chapters. Now, if you include in the amount of time it's taken to get this far (minus the 2 weeks I spent reworking the story), I would finish _two bit town_ in 18 years.

(Figures based on actual math. Like with a calculator and everything.)

So, when you think about it that way, I'm sure you can sympathize. You might even be grateful I'm not saddling you with the Never Ending Story.

I conclude: Don't hate me.

Mare

_

* * *

_

**For the inquisitive reader: **

To find list of the specs, music, and update schedule of this story, you can read the _two bit town _section of my profile.


	3. 2 powder puff

"Welcome," the short boy says very seriously, "Although I have no more right to it than you, I am supposed to welcome you to Karakura High School."

He pauses, thoughtful. "I, as do many of you, come from a long line of Karakura graduates. Look around and you can see them. Listen close..," he pauses again, wearing a self-effacing smirk, "and you can hear them. My new classmates, there are ghosts in these walls. These walls have seen generations learning and maturing together. It is tradition. It is history."

He continues, tone lower this time, "Today, we begin, and so become apart of that tradition, adding our names to those who have come before us. We join that history, and so write it ourselves."

This short boy with crazy white hair sighs heavily, concluding, "I ask that you join me, but as I have already said, I have no more right to this commencement than you have yourselves."

Toushirou Hitsugaya keeps it short, dry, and scant on humor. His manner is confident, a tad indifferent, almost bored.

I glance at Yuzu surreptitiously to gauge her reaction. Without even looking, she shrugs.

Yuzu knows how much that opening address—_my mother's opening address_—meant to me.

So, this Hitsugaya person scored the perfect one hundred percent. He gave _my_ speech.

Little fucker.

My feathers ruffled, I glare at the flock of ubiquitous gray blazers around me, at the many faces I know too well.

They're all whispering, and I catch snatches of their conversations.

"5th and Main a few months ago. The one with..."

"—her name again? You know the one—lives in Seireitei Heights next door to the Kuchiki's…"

"... hangs with an older crowd. My brother Renji says..."

"... my class at Karakura West. A genius, I tell you."

"—_is _white. My mom heard Father Juushirou talking, and he said…"

"Holy fuck, that's what's-her-name's ex-boyfriend!"

My nerves frayed and ego abused, I snap, telling them all to, "Shut the hell up!"

Yuzu winces as the entire room turns to gawk at me.

I flush, adding a feeble, "please." I send our headmaster Kisuke Urahara a pleading look, silently begging him to proceed.

Taking pity on me, my godfather clears his throat, requesting, "And now if you would give_ me_ your fullest attention."

My classmates face front reluctantly, feeling miffed, no doubt, because they're denied the pleasure of discussing every little thing they know or have heard about me too.

The perils of small town living.

Headmaster Urahara grins impishly from beneath his bucket hat, a trademark item which clashes fantastically with the rest of his clothes. "Class schedules, student handbooks, and related announcements are waiting impatiently for you up here. However, your packets will have to wait a bit longer because you _will not_ move until I finish. Students with last names starting with the letters 'A' through 'F' will congregate—in most orderly fashion—around Dr. Shinji Hirako, our guidance councilor. Dr. Hirako, be a dear, and raise your hand."

A blond man with very white, very big teeth waves archly.

"Students with last names beginning with the letters 'G' to 'N,'" Uncle Kisuke pauses for a moment, seemly for no reason at all, and then continues, "and the _only_ student with the last name Zaraki will congregate, again in an orderly manner, around me. Students with last names beginning with the letters 'M' through 'St' will proceed to our school nurse, Mrs. Hisana Kuchiki."

Rukia's mom smiles at us warmly, lifting her small hand in welcome.

"Those with last names beginning with the letters 'Su' to 'V' line up in front of Coach Kenpachi Zaraki."

A clownish, behemoth of a man standing beside Dr. Hirako grins hugely. Big grins are sort of 'his thing.'

I know that man—anyone who plays sports in Karakura knows that man. Zaraki is the Athletics Director at Karakura High School.

"And, finally," sighs Headmaster Urahara, as if this whole affair has been quite taxing, "those with last names starting with letters 'W' to that letter at the end of the alphabet—if only I could remember what it is…" He smiles wistfully, and we face plant. "Anyway, these students will gather around Dr. Shinsui Kyōraku, the Head of Academic Affairs."

My dad's second cousin, wearing a luridly pink shirt, a 5 o'clock shadow, and a pony tail, points to himself with a hearty chuckle.

Complete and expectant quiet.

Then, "Without reducing each other to road kill, you may move… now."

I can't believe our _luck_. Of the administrators handing out packets, I get my godfather.

_Oh, joy._

Yuzu and I merge with the crowd, all dressed in our brand new uniforms. Pressed together like this, we smell like starch.

As I walk down the auditorium steps, the noise level in the room quadruples.

I look back at Yuzu, finding her pointing to the right. Instead of scoping the social scene, she has been looking for Uncle Kisuke—surely, a more practical use of her time.

"He's over there," she mouths.

"Let's go then." I grab Yuzu's hand, and we hustle to join a cluster of comparatively subdued students standing in front of our headmaster.

A pink haired girl—seriously bubble gum and Pepto-Bismol pink—is standing ahead of us in line. She's short, but bouncing up and down like a bunny on crack, I can't tell if she is shorter than me. Her eyes matching her hair, the girl peers over her shoulder and grins so wide it hurts to even look at her.

Still smiling, the dimples in her apple cheeks maintaining optimum sunny-ness, the girl blurts, "I'm Yachiru Zaraki! Who're you?"

Yuzu recovers first.

Incapable of speech, I am still trying to figure out how this powder puff came from Zaraki's loins.

"Hello, Yachiru. I'm Yuzu Kurosaki, and this is my twin sister Karin." Yuzu nudges me, indicating that I am the 'this' to which she's referring. Then, she begins to bounce as well.

Placing a hand on Yuzu's shoulder, I prevent her from bobbing too violently (read: obnoxiously). "Yo," I greet Yachiru Zaraki, content to leave it at that.

"_So_, what do'ya think?" Yachiru asks, her pink eyes spinning around the room so fast I feel sympathetic vertigo.

"Oh, it's very exciting!" Yuzu twitters, wringing her hands nervously.

I scrutinize our queue, guesstimating that we have about ten minutes to kill before we reach the front. I mutter, "I'm ready to get started. All the hype is frying my nerves."

And then, Little Fucker, Toushirou Hitsugaya, strolls past us, his nose buried in the packet of papers Uncle Kisuke just gave him.

I twitch, agitated. He's not as short as I want him to be.

Yuzu and Yachiru glance at me questioningly. To which, I merely shrug, unwilling to share my irrational dislike for a boy I don't even know.

As we progress, I feel butterflies multiply in my tummy. Three more students walk past, and Yachiru is next after a blond haired boy with a nose ring.

Yuzu has hysteria in her honeycomb eyes when she confesses, "Everyone else seems so ready—just talking and laughing. _I_ feel like I'm going to throw up."

"Dad says talk is weak. 'If you've got the chops, they speak for themselves,'" Yachiru quotes bracingly, apparently unaware that nothing she just said is remotely helpful.

"Karin," Yuzu worries, "do I have 'the chops?'"

Squeezing her shoulder lightly, I grin. "Absolutely."

Yuzu's responding smile is tremulous—not at all up to snuff. "Definitely?"

Yachiru adds her two cents, "Totally!" pumping her tiny fist in the air.

We all laugh, and I'm sure I have made my first new friend. An odd pink little friend, but a friend all the same.

"Ah, Yachiru Zaraki." The placid tones of Uncle Kisuke interrupt our merrymaking.

Whirling around, Yachiru cheers, "Hiya, Hathead!"

I nearly choke on a giggle. Who in their right—or even wrong—mind would call their headmaster 'Hathead?'

Still, knowing my godfather, I'd bet my favorite pair of cleats that he's dying to laugh too.

Our headmaster merely stares at Yachiru fixedly. After a pregnant pause, he says in his most colorless voice, "I asked to see you because I've been told you are proliferating that... nickname. While you are a student here, Yachiru, you will call me Headmaster Urahara or Master of the Universe. Nothing less will do."

Yachiru opens her mouth to object, a pout on her lips, "But—"

He cuts across her, "—No buts. Regardless of the length of our acquaintance or the position your father holds here, I am the greatest power within these walls, and you will do as I tell you or I _will_ call your mother." Uncle Kisuke frowns deeply.

Abruptly, he winks, holding Yachiru's packet out to her.

Our pink powder puff dithers mutinously, but understanding that the battle is lost, she grabs at her papers.

Uncle Kisuke, however, does not let go of the packet. Instead, he closes his eyes and waits.

"… um, you can let go now," Yachiru mumbles, tugging the white envelope ineffectually.

"You can let go, now—_what?_ Who can let go, Yachiru?" he prods, smirking under his stupid hat.

"You can let go now, um... Headmaster Urahara?" she ask-answers.

"Well, if you put it that way, I guess I'll let you have it," he replies, obviously disappointed she didn't call him Master of the Universe instead.

"See ya!" Yachiru skips away, pausing only to inform us that she will wait by the door.

Uncle Kisuke is riffling through a box on the table behind him, but I hear the amusement in his voice when he says, "So, the Kurosaki twins grace us with their presence."

I ignore his sarcasm, asking, "Where's Ururu?" realizing with a jolt that I have not seen her yet. I haven't even looked for her.

Still flipping through papers, Uncle Kisuke scoffs, "I haven't the slightest idea."

Yuzu and I exchange dark looks—or rather, mine is dark; Yuzu's is merely uncomprehending.

"Uncle Kisuke, she's—, " Yuzu begins.

"Your daughter," I finish, unamused.

"Yes, yes," he murmurs distractedly, "that happens sometimes."

_Um… what the fuck?_

"Dude, where's your kid? She's supposed to be here somewhere," I fume, gesturing vaguely around the room, annoyed that he isn't even looking at me.

"Well, you answered your own question, Karin," Uncle Kisuke laughs, "Ururu is, in fact, 'here somewhere.'_"_ He turns with a flourish, brandishing two envelopes like Christmas presents.

Then, my godfather leans in, whispering conspiratorially, "I know it's not exactly _fair_, but I scheduled the two of you myself."

I glance at the packets dubiously. When Kisuke Urahara says 'fair,' he doesn't necessarily mean fair to the rest of the students. He can be a bastard just like Dad; so there is a very real possibility that Yuzu and I are the victims of his unfairness.

I lean in still closer, my blue eyes flinty, breathing, "If you messed us up, I will _so_ sic the Mad Kitty on you."

The 'Mad Kitty' is the most benign way to describe Aunt Yoruichi when she's pissed.

Uncle Kisuke shudders delicately, before replying, "Yuzu, I will remember you in my will. As for you…" He frowns wretchedly. "Don't you love me anymore, Karin?"

_He and my dad should be gay together._

I roll my eyes.

My godfather straightens blithely. "Fine, fine. Please read your packets carefully, and remember that I will be following your progress. We are family; so the reputation of this institution should be at the forefront of your minds. As those minds are woefully empty, please fill them with due haste," says Headmaster Urahara, all dignified.

He looks from Yuzu to me and back again, whispering, "Make me look good, eh?" Then, he hands us our things.

"Bye, Headmaster-uncle Kisuke," Yuzu beams.

"Later, Hathead," I quip, saluting him with my envelope.

Then, the two of us shove off.

"Aunt Yoruichi should get a divorce," I mutter, looking at my packet warily, "She's the goddamn mayor. You'd think she would have married someone normal."

"But they've already gotten divorced and remarried twice," Yuzu argues.

"'She should divorce him _again_," I revise sardonically.

Sharing a mirthful glance, we laugh.

A high-pitched whistle draws our attention as well as every other person's attention nearby.

Yachiru is standing on a chair, gesticulating wildly. "Over here!" she yells as if the whole fucking world can't see her. With her bubble gum pink hair, she's towering over the masses.

We wend our way through the sea of gray and red until we stand right below her.

"Hey, Powder Puff, I can see up your skirt," I drawl, smirking as five male heads turn in our direction instantly.

Yuzu pulls the idiot down before anyone else sees her cue ball print underwear.

I do not ask.

"What class are you guys in?" Yachiru gibbers, the words tripping over themselves in her haste to say them.

I consult my envelope, weighing it in my hand, my heart pounding away again. In the corner where the return address belongs, I see a computer generated sticker on which is written five lines of information:

_Karin Kurosaki_

_Homeroom 9A_

_Schedule 2_

_Locker # 666_

_Student ID #21510_

Although the sum of this information equals my entire life, it doesn't actually mean anything until I compare it to Yuzu's.

"A," I reply, watching Yuzu closely.

Yuzu's composure crumbles. "C," she moans, "Are you sure you're not in C?"

I open my mouth to console her—and myself—but Yachiru beats me to it. She tackles Yuzu, almost bringing them to the floor under the weight of her excitement. "Breadhead is in 9C! I'm in 9C too!" she sings.

'_Breadhead?' I… never mind._

I grin past my own disappointment because it's good for Yuzu to have Yachiru in her homeroom. If our situations were reversed, it would be ten times worse.

Yachiru babbles, "Forget that! Class letter is just homeroom. What schedules do you guys have? That's the important one. I have schedule 40," letting go of Yuzu so she can get enough air to talk.

Clearly dazed, Yuzu coughs, "Schedule 47."

"Schedule 2," I grumble. Things are not panning out. _Uncle Kisuke is a douche._

"Oh, fumble-bumble! It was a long shot anyway. Hardly anyone has the same stock schedule," Yachiru says, miffed regardless.

Tears blooming in her honey eyes, Yuzu's breath quickens. "I'm all alone," she worries, barely above a whisper.

"Awe, don't cry, Breadhead," Yachiru croons, rubbing Yuzu's back awkwardly, "It ain't so bad! We could still have some classes together. Especially since our numbers are so close. This just means we won't have_ every_ class together, but so what? If we did, life would be _bor-ing_! We'd run out of stuff to talk about."

I raise a brow—_I doubt Yachiru has ever run out of 'stuff to talk about'_—feeling wrong footed watching her comfort my sister.

Correctly interpreting the that's-my-Yuzu-you're-rubbing expression on my face, Yachiru whispers, "My mom always rubs me back when I cry," adding an innocent shrug to soften me up.

Because I am a sucker, I let it go.

Returning to the issue at hand, I roll my eyes. This whole conversation is ludicrous. I tell Yuzu, "Look, we either know or know someone who knows every person in this school. Making friends will be a cakewalk, especially for someone like you."

_In Karakura, there is no such thing as a stranger._

By degrees, Yuzu recovers, smiling hard with resolve, "Yeah, this way we'll make lots of friends and have lots to discuss."

"That's better," I nod approvingly, walking down the hall with the campus map from my packet open in my hands.

Yuzu, studying her map upside down and frowning helplessly, replies distractedly, "It's much better."

"It's much better squared!" Yachiru cheers, having already folded her map into a busboy cap. And currently wearing it.

I shake my head, exasperated, as I lead them to homeroom 9C. "Powder Puff, you mean, 'It's the best,'" I admonish, "Better, much better, _best_."

* * *

Revised edition.

Dedication: My brother Peter. (Thanks for your insight and support during my tumultuous revision of this story. Without your encouragement, I would not have been brave enough to rewrite this story.)

Mare


	4. 3 little fucker

According to the directions on my map, this is 9A—my homeroom.

Room 4 of the Mathematics and Sciences Building.

Taking a deep breath in preparation and resenting my godfather, I push the door open.

Ignoring the announcements hung on the notice board, I peruse the room. Twenty or so students are standing around in little cliques, catching up with grammar school classmates and meeting friends of friends.

It's the same scene every year with only the slightest variation.

Today, the uniforms are different, and the desks are bigger. Some of the students are bigger too.

Noting the familiar faces, I find Ururu, her ever-present pigtails bobbing as she answers a question posed by a girl with a skull and bones barrette. I recognize the questioner instantly.

_Oh, joy._

Seeing me, Ururu says in her feather light voice, "Oh, Lilynette, this is Karin Kurosaki. We grew up together." She smiles at me affably, her bangs obscuring her cobalt eyes. "Karin, this is Lilynette Starrk," Ururu tells me, "She plays soccer—"

"—for Hueco Mundo Park and Fields. Your jersey number's 1, isn't it? I remember you," I interject, not liking this girl at all. She totally fucked my perfect season two years ago.

Lilynette smirks, the spark of competition glittering in her magenta eyes, "Well, if it isn't Don Kanonji's little superstar. You must hate me."

Ururu begins wringing her hands, uncomfortable in the sudden atmosphere of barely restrained homicide. She hedges, "Soccer? You guys have something in common." Her tone is faintly hysterical.

"Doubt it," I quip, rolling me eyes. Still, I hold out my hand, wondering why I'm a sucker for sweet ladies in distress.

Her head tilted, Lilynette considers my hand for several mortifying seconds. Then, she shakes it or, rather, tries unsuccessfully to crush it.

I clench my teeth, saying only, "Nice strong grip. Very… manly."

Ururu, clearly desperate, engages my soccer nemesis in unrelated conversation, angling her back to me. She's giving me an out.

Silently, I promise to thank Uncle Kisuke for having such a cool kid. I knew there was a reason I tolerate his existence.

I scrutinize the rows of desks critically. Which desk I choose my freshman year could define the rest of my high school life. Sitting next to someone like Lilynette Starrk would surely label me a nut-job because I would probably kill her.

Still, I'm not stupid. I know I'm going to be seeing quite a lot of little Miss I'm-so-badass-because-my-hair-is-unnaturally-green on the soccer field if we make the team.

I shake my head feeling sorry for myself, when I spot a white haired boy leaning—ever so nonchalantly—against the windowsill. Little Fucker is playing with his cell phone, seemingly unaware of the speculative looks ninety percent of the other students in the room are sending his way.

I glare at my school bag, betrayed. The one shoulder androgynous thing with lots of zippers has decided to represent evil.

Not caring where I sit anymore because my life is fucked anyway, I stomp to the first available seat and collapse into it. _Who_ _knew first days could be so traumatizing?_

Apparently, someone else thinks sitting down is a good idea. A smooth baritone orders the class to, "Sit."

I look to the door, truest horror dawning as I see Uliquiorra Cifer, in all his emo glory, static in the doorway. His emerald green eyes stoic and expression blank, he surveys the room.

Everyone immediately obeys, the scrape of chairs somehow muted in his austere presence.

Still standing in the doorway, hands in the pockets of his slacks, he introduces himself, "I am Mr. Uliquiorra Cifer. I teach mathematics to all honors and AP students. As this class is comprised of students who scored highest on the entrance exam, I will be teaching the majority of you."

I know Mr. Cifer the Math Wiz. He began teaching at Karakura Ichigo's senior year, Their relationship was... tense.

Mr. Cifer had a problem with Ichigo's Calculus test scores—or, rather, my brother's uncharacteristically pathetic Calculus test scores. Ichigo had a problem with Mr. Cifer's scoring—or, rather, my brother's assertion that his Calculus teacher was trying to score with Orihime Inoue. The sorry business ended with Mr. Cifer calling Ichigo 'trash,' and Ichigo threatening to skewer Mr. Cifer.

Yes, it was very tense.

_And I am Ichigo's sister. And I am Ichigo's sister. And I am Ichigo's…_

The horrid realization plays over and over in my mind.

Pressurized quiet chokes the room, and no one moves for fear of metaphorical dismemberment.

Mr. Ciefer walks to the podium in front of the blackboards. His protuberant eyes hone in on Little Fucker, who is sitting one column over and two rows up from me.

"Mr. Hitsugaya, I presume." Not a question. "I believe you were texting when I entered the room." In no way does Mr. Ciefer's tone indicate 'belief.' More like divine judgment.

Mr. Ciefer raises a hand in the universal gesture of whatever-you-have-now-belongs-to-me.

My eyes and the eyes of every other person in the room do the tennis swivel.

Little Fucker hesitates for a fraction of a second. Then, he opens his mouth to object.

'_Little Fucker' has been amended to 'Crazy Little Fucker.' Maybe even 'Suicidal Little Fucker.'_

Toushirou informs our teacher, "The bell—" And god be damned if the bell does not ring at that exact instant. "—had not rung. I am allowed to be on my phone before homeroom starts."

Mr. Ciefer's eyes narrow imperceptibly. "You are laboring under the delusion that I care. As the heading 'Please Read Before Sitting' was lost on you, you evidently missed rule number 1," Mr. Cifer intones, pointing to the notice board we all ignored.

The class turns to this list written in the straightest print I have ever seen—with a loopy cursive addendum at the bottom—pinned to the corkboard.

A very brave soul complains, "I can't read that from all the way over here."

Mr. Ciefer, clearly not a fan of public speaking, glares at the boy, expanding in a monotone, "'Rule 1: No cell phones for any reason at any time. Rule 2: No gum. Ever. Rule 3: Raise your hand to speak…'"

Rin Tsubokura, the boy who had spoken out of turn—his black bangs in a pony tail, shooting out from the top of his head like palm fronds—quivers.

"'Rule 5: If you are late, go home. Rule 6: Clean your workstation. Rule 7: Asinine questions will be ignored. Rule 8: If your dog or any other domesticated animal ate your homework, you will receive a zero on the assignment and a detention for unoriginality. Rule 9: If you ask a question using the words 'can I' instead of 'may I,' you will join Special Ed for the day. Rule 10: Arguing the validity of these rules will get you nowhere.'"

A girl I recognize as Midori Tono points to the addendum, a puzzled expression on her round face.

Mr. Cifer stiffens, remarkably uncomfortable, adding in an undertone, "'Rule 11: Be sure to smile at least once everyday.'"

I can't help it; I laugh.

Everyone stares at me agog, but I can't stop because I know who wrote Rule 11. Orihime is an oddball, and Uliquiorra Cifer can deny her nothing.

They started dating 'officially' over the summer. The town went wild with speculation, but still… to let her besmirch his precious rules, I hear wedding bells.

"And whom might you be?" asks Mr. Cifer.

I have to pause to wipe a tear from my eye, replying, "Karin. Karin Kurosaki." He's bound to find out sooner or later.

Mr. Cifer closes his eyes from a moment, no doubt, to master his ire. Opening them slowly, he asks, "Another one?"

I consider the advisability of all possible answers, settling on, "Yes."

Shaken, I think, Mr. Cifer turns to his pristine desk, telling us, "Because this is the first week of the new semester, you will spend the next five days acclimating. Homeroom activities and announcements will resume next week.

"You have ten minutes before moving to your first period classes. I suggest you familiarize yourself with your schedules and plan accordingly. Please sign the attendance sheet on your way out.

"And, Mr. Hitsugaya, I expect your cell phone to be on my desk before you leave. You may retrieve it after the final bell."

He adds stiffly, "You may converse quietly with your neighbors."

Frozen by incredulity, it takes several second for us to comply.

With a sigh, I study my schedule, trying to block out an anonymous fawning voice asking Crazy Little Fucker, "Can I see your schedule, Hitsugaya?"

My paper reads:

_Schedule 2_

_1st Period - English II Honors. English Building, Room 1. Mr. Sasakibe Chōjirō. _

"Chōjirō! He lives next door to my aunt. She swears he's gay," the fawning voice informs him.

_2nd Period - Journalism. English Building, Room 9. Mr. Shuhei Hisagi. _

"Journalism with Hisagi. You train at his father's gym, right?"

_3rd Period - Biology I Honors. Mathematics & Sciences Building, Room 12. Ms. Nemu Karotsuchi._

"Aha! I have Bio with Nemu Karosuchi, too. Did you know she's that crackpot's daughter? I'm terrified."

_4th Period - Geometry Honors. Mathematics & Sciences Building, Room 4. Mr. Ulquiorra Cifer_.

"Cifer for Geometry. He's so mean. I cannot _believe _he's taking your phone!"

_5th Period - World History Honors. Humanities Building, Room 1. Mr. Tessai Tsukabishi._

"Tsukabishi! Personally, I think he's a burnout. My mom says he shops at that herbal remedy shop on Kidou Avenue…"

_6th Period - Spanish I Honors. Humanities Building, Room 3. Mrs. Tai Starrk._

"Latin with Hachi. He's really nice."

_7th Period – Physical Education I, Gymnasium. Coach Ikkaku Madarame._

"PE seventh! Me too!" coos the infatuated blond girl.

I am unhappiness personified. I am enraged and glowering at the stupid, stupid, stupid piece of paper in my hand, trying to incinerate it with my mind.

_God surely hates me._

I look up to find gushy-blond returning Crazy Little Fucker's schedule to him. "Oh, no," she frets, "we only have biology and PE together," so desperate to be close to him, she is practically sitting on top of her desk.

I take vindictive pleasure in the guy's obvious annoyance, his faint scowl indicating acute awareness of the girl's motives. Yet, he sits there, listening to her prattle, offering monosyllabic responses.

As if feeling my stare, he looks backward directly at me. Then, Crazy Little Fucker lifts a brow, no doubt, confused by my mocking expression.

He glances away a second later, answering one of the blond's infantile questions without missing a beat, rereading his schedule and comparing it to his campus map. The blond babbles on.

Just then, Ururu—with my soccer nemesis in tow—blocks my view. "May I see your schedule, Karin? We might have some classes together," she asks softly.

I hand it to her mutely, not really caring what becomes of me at this point.

Ururu and Lilynette assess my schedule with concentrated expressions. Eventually, Ururu sighs, relieved. Lilynette's mouth thins into a hard line.

"We have English, math, and Spanish together," Ururu tells me happily. When she grins, I can almost see a resemblance to her mother. Everything else about her, from her floppy bangs to willowy figure, screams 'I'm Kisuke Urahara's daughter.'

Ururu hands the sheet of paper back to me.

Meanwhile, Lilynette struggles with herself, unable to decide which is cooler—ridiculing me or ignoring me. The former desire wins just as I knew it would. "Interesting. We have quite a few classes together," she snickers, "Including Spanish with my mom. Good luck with that."

If it's even possible, my black mood grows darker.

Directly following her doom-and-gloom pronouncement, the bell rings. _Saved by the fucking bell—my life is turning into a cheesy sitcom drowning in teenage angst_.

Grabbing my papers and stuffing them unceremoniously in my bag, I practically run for the door.

Right outside, I find Rukia Kuchiki and a gabble of her junior friends leaning against the far wall. She waves me over, her expression becoming increasingly wary with every step I take.

"I heard you got Cifer for homeroom," she frowns, "Totally blows, I'll admit, but no reason to wear that scary frown. What's eating you?"

I sigh, glad to have a sympathetic listener. My complaints spill out in a great torrent of despair, "Remember when I told you some random guy beat me on the entrance exam? Well, the little fucker is in all of my classes except one—Spanish _with Starrk_. Would you believe me if I told you Lilynette's in my homeroom too? And to add shock to the horror, she and Ururu are walking around like Siamese twins, all sickeningly in platonic love with each other."

Rukia places a conciliatory hand on my shoulder, "I can't come over tonight because I have a start-of-the-semester-snooze-fest with my dad. But how 'bout I come over Friday, and we can talk about it?" As an afterthought, she adds, "Do want to hold on to my Chappy keychain. It always makes me feel better." Rummaging in her bag for a moment, she holds the godforsaken bunny keychain out to me like it's a sacrificial offering.

"If I didn't already know you're nuts, I'd ask if you were mocking me," I deadpan, "and you're only coming over because you're having withdrawals. 'Making me feel better' is just an excuse to hang out because I'm the next best thing to hanging with Ichigo's lame ass."

Rukia's eyes fly wide with feigned hurt, her mouth pouting. "You know that isn't true, Karin. I'm only using you as an excuse to eat Friday Feast."

Yuzu's Friday Feast is always the most scrumptious meal of the week.

We share wicked grins. Then, I nod, "Fine, fine. Whatever."

I glance at Rukia's friends dubiously. Renji, a redhead dude covered in tattoos, is talking animatedly with a miniature version of himself who could only be his little brother Jinta. Beside Renji, a vaguely familiar blond—sporting an unusually angular haircut and an _über dour_ expression—is conversing quieting with none other than Crazy Little Fucker.

Once again employing his superhuman power of perception, he turns to me, slow and deliberate. It's almost dramatic.

The first words Toushirou Hitsugaya speaks to me are dripping with acid.

"What _is_ your problem?" he asks, scowling.

_Ugh._

Later, on my way home from school, it start to rain, drenching my school bag which has decided to represent evil.

* * *

Revised edition.

Dedication: Etiena (Your legitimate criticism of the misdirection of "Hitsugaya-mania" inspired me to rewrite most of those scenes and corresponding dialog. Although my original intention was to highlight the fishbowl atmosphere of small town living, much of that was lost in my microscopic attention to the female instances of the problem, thereby undermining the point I was trying to make. I hope I've managed to convey this element of the story better in the revised edition.)

Mare


	5. 4 in sight

For most students at Karakura High School, the novelty of a new school year wears thin by about Wednesday. Changes in hair style, summer breakups and hookups, and shiny new school supplies can only hold their interest for so long.

Generally speaking, falling into the rhythm of another school year is merely a means to an end. One year closer to graduation. One year closer to breaking free of this two bit town, even if only for a few years at university.

However, the freshmen manage to keep our excitement going through the week. We have a host other new thing to occupy us. Teachers, buildings, uniforms, and procedures we've never had before.

And then there's the freshman class itself. The faces are not necessarily new, but half of us went to different schools before coming here.

Karakura Town isn't large enough to need two high schools, but our town has two grammar schools in order to keep the lower grade levels small. There's one in Seireitei District and one in Karakura Proper.

Seireitei District and Karakura Proper are the only counties in Karakura Town, divided by an invisible line—this line's sole purpose: confusing the mailmen. Karakura Town, itself, sits snugly in the middle of nowhere.

Or maybe a more accurate description would be: sits snugly on the edge of nowhere.

You have to drive east for about thirty minutes if you want to find signs of intelligent life—even further if you're looking for decent soccer competition. But if you drive in any other direction, you'll fall off the rim of the world.

In other words, into the ocean because Karakura Town is surrounded by water on three sides.

So, my freshman class offers a bit more variety than I'm used to. In fact, I've managed to achieve the impossible—find about five people I've never met before.

_Oh, joy—my world is expanding by leaps and bounds!_

My lunch table has extended to include Yuzu, Yachiru, Jinta, and Ururu, along with bitchy Lilynette. Oh, and of course, my soccer oddballs Ryohei, Heita, Kei, and Kazuya.

If nothing else, lunch period is a laugh. Real funny with the sole exception Jinta's growing obsession with my sister. Thankfully, Yachiru has taken it upon herself to protect her precious 'Breadhead.' I don't have to slap Jinta Abarai because our powder puff slaps him ten times harder.

And so, the days fly in a blur, my opinions of my courses merging vaguely with my opinion of the scenery.

On Friday, I'm feeling particularly smug because I managed to find my locker and all my classrooms without using my campus map once.

The only shadow on the otherwise bright beginning of my high school career is the frequent—inescapable—presence of Crazy Little Fucker, Toushirou Hitsugaya.

At least I can get away from Lilynette for a few hours a day, but Toushirou is everywhere. All the time.

I'd thought his exam score was some kind of glitch in reality at best or an unfortunate demotion is second smartest freshman at worse. I was confident that I'd outshine Toushirou other things—athletic things especially. He's sort of flimsy-looking.

But I was wrong.

In P.E, the brainy fucker becomes someone else, a rocket running as fast as me and doing more pull-ups, crunches, and push-ups than anyone as _tiny_ as him should be able to do. And to add insult to irritation, Coach Madarame asked him which sports team he was going to tryout for, and Toushirou just shrugged, saying, "None," like idea didn't _appeal_ to him—like he's just too awesome to condescend to join in. _Where the fuck is his school pride?_

On the upside, Spanish with the Starrks isn't as awful as I imagined. Because Toushirou isn't there.

Friday, final bell rings, marking the end of my first week of high school, and I still haven't managed to beat Crazy Little Fucker. Not even once.

At least I have Friday Feast to look forward to. A conciliation prize.

_Right. _

So this evening, I'm sitting here waiting for dinner to be ready, just minding my own business, when someone decides to rupture my eardrums.

An unamused voice yells, "Damnit, Karin, come down! Quit hiding on the roof. You know bloody well I hate climbing up there."

Hmm, I forgot Rukia was coming over tonight for dinner.

Reflecting on the situation objectively, I concede that I am, indeed, hiding up here.

After a moment of sour silence, I call back, "Duly noted. You prefer to hide in the closet."

Observing the moon and stars, I smirk.

I'm positive that Rukia is blushing right now because we both know she has spent a lot of quality time in Ichigo's closet—first as a childhood friend playing hide-and-go-seek and then as a sneaky girlfriend playing I-don't-want-anyone-to-know-I'm-here.

Regrouping, hanging precariously out of the window, she drops all pretense, "Look, Yuzu's going overboard, cooking everything in the house."

To that, I half nod. Yuzu only cooks everything she can get her hands on when she's worried. My bipolar attitude this week didn't exactly inspired ease.

_I_ am worrying her, and sitting pretty on the roof is not helping.

_This simply will not do._

Sighing hugely, I swing down off the gutter and into my new bedroom—Ichigo's old bedroom.

Rukia smiles, nodding approvingly as I right my rumpled shirt. Then, she asks, "You done pity partying?"

I merely shrug, muttering, "Nah, just thought I'd extend an invitation."

Rukia shakes her disproportionately large head ruefully. She angles the computer chair toward my bed, sitting backwards and gesturing for me to sit down too.

Feeling ridiculous—like a pych patient about to unload on her therapist—I lay out on top my covers. I glare at the bumps in the ceiling paint, begging in an undertone, "Please refrain from asking 'how does that make you feel?'"

She snickers but speaks not.

By degrees, the silence grows serious.

Rukia is waiting for me to open the conversation, letting me lead, and I appreciate that because 'baring my soul' is not my thing.

"So…" I trail, hating the awkwardness in my voice.

I glance at Rukia from my uncomfortable position, my chin abusing my sternum.

She blows her bangs out of her face, aggravated by my hesitance, suggesting, "Okay, try starting with the boy you've been pissing and moaning about all week and finish by explaining why I caught you practically skipping to Starrk's classroom today." Rukia says the last words with obvious distaste.

I steel my resolve, starting with the latter because it's easier to explain than the former.

Annoyed, I reply, "I don't 'skip' anywhere. And I'm not hyped on Spanish at all. Lilynette is there, remember?"

Unsatisfied, Rukia raises a disbelieving brow.

I switch tracks, unable to clarify my unexpected forbearance of Starrk-y Spanish without widening the scope of this conversation.

Grimacing, I expand bitterly, "Well, there is this guy, the one I was _telling_ you about—not pissing and moaning_—_and he's in my homeroom and nearly all my classes.

"God, Ruk, he's such a know-it-all! He sat there, staring off into space. Then, our teachers asked those start-of-the-semester questions specifically designed to prove how ignorant we are, but he spit out the answers like he has a computer in his head instead of a brain—like his middle name is Wikipedia.

"He and Hisagi were all buddy-buddy. Apparently, little Wiki-boy trains at Muguruma Gym—you know the one on 69th across the street from that abandoned factory—_s_o_ naturally_, the little genius is his favorite.

"And then, in P.E…" My rant trails off because I'm _so_ not going there.

Feeling the need to validate my dislike on a more personal level, I explode, "Gah! He acts so superior. Like he's good at everything and _knows_ it."

Rukia just nods, a closed expression on her face.

So I continue, rounding out my argument, "I'm of the opinion that Spanish isn't _all_ bad, just mostly bad. Why? Because it's the only one of my classes he's not in—a blessed reprieve from him and all the small town bullshit that follows him around like the goddamn plague.

"It's nauseating. He isn't even _that_ special, ya know? It's the only first week. They don't even know him!"

My jaw locks as I recall the Hitsugaya-mania with mortifying clarity.

Hands in the air, I exclaim, "Ahh! Dude's fucking short, goddamnit!"

I'm being irrational, but, seriously, he aces a test, makes one speech, and that equals instant stardom? _Um, no._

I comfort myself, knowing people will find some new drama to obsess over soon enough.

"By any chance, does this short 'Wiki-boy' have spiky white hair?" Rukia asks tonelessly.

I rise on my elbow, scowling, "Yeah, his name is Toushirou Hitsugaya. You know him?"

Rukia actually winces. "I… know him," she says slowly, scratching her forehead compulsively. "He dated a friend of mine." Uncomfortable with the topic, Rukia's eyes shift away from me.

Frowning, I digest that bit of information—the snippets of commentary I overheard throughout the week falling into place like a partially completed puzzle. I try to guess which of her friends he could have dated but come up empty. The majority of Rukia's crowd is male and almost all of her friends are older than her. Toushirou is only fourteen.

"The hell? Who?" I ask quizzically, face graphic with confusion.

Rukia rubs her eyes tiredly. If I had to name look on her face, I would call it defeated.

She opens her mouth twice before answering, "... um, Momo Hinamori."

Shocked, my eyes widen. I had no idea Rukia was friends with _her_.

Everyone knows about the car accident that killed Momo Hinamori. She and a teacher ran off the road and into a telephone pole. The driver was killed on impact, but Momo lapsed into a coma for a week before she died.

I jump off my bed, rushing Rukia. Even though I didn't know they were friends at the time, I feel guilty for not having been there for my brother's girlfriend, a card-carrying member of our Kurosaki-Urahara-Kuchiki clan.

I do not hug people often, but I love Rukia. I am more than willing to break my own rules for the people I love.

Grabbing her, catching her off guard, I tuck her head into my shoulder. I breathe, "You didn't tell me, Ruk. Why?"

Rukia sighs miserably, saying only, "It's complicated, Karin. There's a lot more to it than a car accident." Pulling back, she searches my face. Her violet eyes penetrating my blue ones, Rukia amends, "But it's not my story to tell."

I swallow thickly, hiding my helplessness and my hurt, persuading myself that Rukia can't give me details because it's not my business. _Not_ because she doesn't trust me.

Still, I want to make it crystal clear that, "You can _always_ talk to me. You can tell me anything, and it stays between us." I glare at her forcefully, impressing upon her the earnestness of my declaration.

Rukia's big purple eyes soften. She smiles. "Yeah, yeah. Ditto kid."

We both laugh, pretending the moment isn't nauseatingly ooy-gooey.

"Anyway," Rukia hedges, attempting to change the subject. "Toushirou really isn't that bad. A bit uptight but not bad."

I do not object, allowing that her opinion on this matter supersedes mine. Having Byakuya Kuchiki for a father, she would know a thing or a million about uptight people.

Rukia smiles sadly, her speech halting and drifting out of focus, "He wasn't always like that. It's just… Momo. When she died, he changed... he just... Toushirou really loved her, and now, he's not really handling it. He can't handle it."

I consider that for a moment, the ache of my mother's death flickering as I sit down on my bed heavily.

I wonder, shamelessly prodding, "I know you can't tell me everything, but what was she like? Momo Hinamori. As small as this town is, I never met her."

Now that I think about it, it's actually very weird, statistically unlikely.

Rukia bites the inside of her cheek as she gropes for words. Deciding which parts of the story to share and which parts to keep from me, she explains, "Momo lived with her grandmother. Well, you know my mom—never met a soul in need she wouldn't bend over backwards for…"

She trails off, momentarily stuck in her head.

Rukia does that a lot when she talks about Hisana, my aunt in all but blood. It must be hard to be jealous of her mom's charities, fundraisers, and patients. Her mom has a mighty heart, generous with her time and dedicated to the Kuchiki reputation, but Aunt Hisana is nearsighted. She doesn't always _see_ her own daughter.

Returning to the present, she shakes her head unconsciously.

"Anyway, I got to know her sort of on accident," Rukia tells me, tone fond. "Izuru—he lives across the street and two doors down from me—okay, so he brought Momo to a charity event a couple years back, and my mom found out about her grandmother.

"True to form, Mom started helping them out, buying groceries and taking Granny—Mrs. Hinamori, I mean—to the doctor. That sort of thing.

"Momo hung out at our house sometimes. We went to the same grammar school, but she was a year younger than me so we'd never really hung out, you know? But she was so damn… kind. Real sweet. We became friends." Rukia pauses, the fond expression on her face becoming bitter.

Regretful and grieving, Rukia finishes, "Toushirou moved in next door the summer before last. I introduced him to Momo. I almost wish…"

She glares at her tennis shoes, backtracking, "You know, Karin, you don't know him any better than those stupid gossipers you hate so much."

Taken aback and lacking a defense, I unwillingly concede, "… True."

I'm hopelessly tactless, but I do _see_ things. Rukia's disappointed in me but mostly disappointed in herself. I wish I knew why.

But I know she wouldn't tell me if I was nosy enough to ask. So I throw out something bland, "Hey, I'll lay off him, yeah? I really shouldn't hate him anyway."

Rukia looks up like she only just realized I'm still here.

Hiding behind a nonchalant face, she rolls her eyes, advising me, "'Yeah, so lighten up. And please—_please—_stop skipping to Spanish. It's creepy. I thought you'd been body-snatched."

I scoff, "Who cares if I'm creepy? I'm the little sister of Ichigo Kurosaki, the athletic phenom, and Rukia Kuchiki, Karakura's one and only uptown girl. I don't need to be a people-pleaser. They're already tripping over themselves to sit at my lunch table."

_I might be overstating things._

Rukia reaches out to ruffle my inky hair, replying, "I'm not actually your sister, you know?"

I bat her hand away, smirking. "Yet. Not my sister _yet_."

Rukia's complexion imitates tomato skin. And I laugh long and hard.

Irritated, she threatens, "If you don't shut up, I'll draw those pictures you love so much to illustrate the torture I am going to heap upon you!"

I blanch. Rukia just killed my mirth. I don't know who hates her drawings more—me or Ichigo.

"Never!" I gasp. "Damn your pitiful artwork."

Rukia stands blithely, too familiar with the tenure of that insult to take offense. "On that heartwarming note, should we inform Yuzu you aren't planning to jump off the roof?"

"That,_ big sister_, is a smart idea," I say all serious-like. "Who knew you were capable of having smart ideas?"

"Bitch," she grumbles.

I point to the closet, _both_ brows raised. "Slut."

Courageously fighting off a blush, Rukia huffs, "Shut the hell up."

Halfway out of the door, I remember, "Oh hell, I forgot to tell you! This morning I totally yelled, 'Shut the hell up!' in the middle of the commencement ceremony. Talk about embarrassing…"

Feeling lighter as we share a laugh, I feel marginally better, looking forward to Friday Feast.

We jog down the stairs two at a time, racing to save Yuzu from herself.

* * *

Revised edition.

Dedication: My friend Phil (I am hopelessly indebted to you. Without your confidence in my skill, your ability to understand my sketchy plot notes, and your fascinating insights—many of which I hadn't considered—writing this story would have become lonely business. Perhaps, even a chore. Somehow your rather bland [and frequent] advice to "keep at it" makes the tedium of editing a pleasure. I am excited to hear your reaction to the new and improved version of _two bit town._)

Mare


	6. 5 unwilling concessions

I spend the rest of the weekend doing soccer drills and skimming my textbooks. By Sunday, things are looking up. With a couple of day's perspective, it's hard too imagine that my first week of high school was as exasperating as it seemed.

On the way to school on Monday, I try to stifle any lingering resentment I feel toward Toushirou Hitsugaya. Two Wiki-boy-free days dulled the intensity of the dislike I felt last week. And Rukia seems to think he's not so bad.

I promised to lay off—to take a step back and be rational. I do not break promises made to my family, so I have to make a legitimate effort.

I arrive early to Room 4 for homeroom, intent to discover at least one good thing about Toushirou. Sitting down at the same desk I occupied last week, I will myself to relax. I feel inexplicably restless, almost twitchy.

My classmates, all yawns and toothpaste stains, start to trickle in as the clock ticks life away.

First week excitement is dead.

Mr. Cifer walks in exactly five minutes before the bell is set to ring. He assesses the situation, his opaque expression obscuring his thoughts. His emerald eyes settle on mine for the briefest moment, and I can't help wondering what he sees when he looks at me. If he only sees Ichigo looking back.

I shrug it off.

As Mr. Cifer assumes his post behind the podium, I turn back to the door, waiting for Toushirou to show.

A commercial break later, said boy appears, his presence drawing everyone's attention.

In his hand, Toushirou's cell phone is flagrantly visible. Right outside of the perimeter of Mr. Cifer's domain, he halts. Toushirou looks up from his phone coolly, his teal eyes shining with triumph. Then, he snaps his phone shut, stepping over the threshold with exaggerated care as the device disappears into his pocket.

With Herculean restraint, Toushirou manages to contain his smirk until he turns down the row to my right. I can almost see his smugness as it oozes from every pore.

Whatever else he may be, Toushirou doesn't cave to tyrannical bullshit. I can relate to that sort of brazen disregard. I live to buck the status quo.

For his part, Mr. Cifer pretends ignorance, heedless of us all as he flips through his notes, writing an outline for his first class on the blackboard.

Biting the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing, I wonder what kind of hell Toushirou has just provoked. Mr. Cifer is going to be in rare form for Geometry. _Good thing the crazy-hair boy is a genius._

The bell rings, and we fall silent.

Mr. Cifer turns to us stiffly. "Because today is the first official day of homeroom, we will watch the school news broadcast. Immediately following, we will elect the class representative. As we have only thirty minutes with which to complete these tasks, I will not abide tomfoolery."

I quirk a brow, marveling at Orhime's forbearance—she, in all her bubbly glory, tolerates Mr. Someone-pisses-in-my-wheaties-every-morning. _How, though?_

Choosing to focus on his words instead of his delivery, my interest is piqued. If I am going to achieve my goal of being class president by my junior year, I have to start building a rapport with my constituency now. This election is of the utmost import. I must run.

I glance around the room shrewdly, sniffing out my competition.

Mr. Cifer rolls an ancient television set complete with VCR—_are you shitting me_? _VCR_—to the front of the room.

Flipping to channel 12, the scrambled picture resolves into a heart shaped face with bug eyes and a lime green bob.

"Hiya," the girl waves, "For all the baby freshmen who don't know me, I'm Mashiro Kuna, the voice of the people! Welcome to my show, and welcome back for another fun filled year at Karakura High!"

Her painfully wide grin reminds me of Yachiru Zaraki as does the piteous frown she's wearing now. "Because it's only our second week, I don't have much to report… Dreadful, really. "

Truly wretched in her sorrow, the girl recovered instantly. "Anyhow, we have Student Body President Hiyori Sarugaki here this morning to tell us all how she whipped Headmaster Urahara into shape over the summer! President Sarugaki…"

Literally coughing, I choke on disbelief. _Hiyori __is the student body president?_

When you look up loose canon in the dictionary, you will find a picture of my old babysitter, Hiyori Sarugaki.

"Definitely, Mashiro, I whipped Urahara good and proper," Hiyori informs us, her expression gleeful, "This year, lunch break is ten minutes longer, and because last year's food was total bullshit, the menu's been revamped.

"Side note, Nurse Hisana got her tight ass husband to sponsor new uniforms and equipment for the Martial Arts Club. Kudos, Rukia Kuchiki, for having rich parents!"

Mashiro nods gravely, replying, "Wow, Pres, you sure know how to live up to your campaign promises! Speaking of, any progress on the petition to lower the academic requirement for sports teams?"

A nerve in Hiyori's temple jumps as she turns to glare at Bug-girl, snapping, "Hell no! Stupid Urahara won't budge."

Mashiro grins impishly, saying, "Okay, okay. I have one final question for you, Pres! This one comes from a viewer who posted on our website!"

The girl uses _way_ too many exclamation points.

Clearing her throat importantly, Mashiro reads, "'Dear President Sarugaki, inquiring minds want to know—have you ever received counseling for your anger management issue? If not, my door is always open. Yours in spirit, anonymous guidance councilor."

She turns to Hiyori expectantly, not at all perturbed by the expression of homicidal rage distorting young blond's face.

Hiyori's head grows larger as she stomps closer to the camera. She rails, "Shinji Hirako, I'm gonna shove my shoe so far up your—"

Mashiro cuts across her with the air of someone practiced, "—and that concludes our opening broadcast! Today's show is brought to you by Inoue Diner and Love's Body and Repair." She winks winningly, holding up a peace sign. "See you next month. Until then, be sure to do lots of interesting things so I can talk about 'em!"

The screen goes abruptly fuzzy, and we sit, static in apoplectic silence.

I dedicate a moment of awe to my uncle's unorthodox embrace of free speech. He told me years ago that he doesn't believe in censorship. He doesn't want to 'curb our enthusiasm.' But still… wow.

_Just wow._

Mr. Cifer stares at the TV, clearly of the opinion that our school's news program is trash. He turns it off, the little clicking sound providing closure for those of us still gaping.

"Now, elections," he reminds us. "Candidates?"

No one raises a hand but me. I can't believe my luck. _Seriously, no competition?_

I half expected Lilynette to run just to spite me.

Predictably, Mr. Cifer ignores me. "No one?" he asks, his gaze sifting through my unaccommodating classmates.

Mr. Cifer nods slowly. Then, he regroups, requesting, "Any nominations?"

I forgot about that part. _Drat. Damn. Fuck._

Quite a few hands fly up simultaneously.

Mr. Cifer lifts a brow but says nothing. Glancing at his seating chart, he calls on, "Hanatarō Yamada."

I know Hanatarō. He works at his mom's pharmacy, Minazuki Drugstore on 4th and High, with his sister Miyuki. Hanatarō 's personality makes Ururu look like a tiger by comparison. Needless to say, I am shocked by his willingness to speak to the class.

"I nomitate—I mean _nominate_… Toushirou Hitsugaya," Hanatarō whispers, his face very pink and his voice cracking halfway through.

Immediately following, the fawning blond from yesterday cries, "I second the nomination!"

Apparently, Hitsugaya-mania hasn't abated just yet.

Mr. Cifer is less than pleased. He gives the little genius-worshiper a dark glare, admonishing, "Do not speak out of turn."

Between me and Toushirou, I doubt Mr. Cifer can decide which is the lesser evil.

Save one, all hands lower. Ururu, stalwart in her desire to be heard, actually raises her hand a bit higher.

Mr. Cifer doesn't have to consult his chart to recognize the headmaster's daughter. "Ururu Urahara."

"I second Karin Kurosaki's bid, Sir," Ururu says, her voice clear and certain. She peers at me, telling me without words that I have her support, her love, and her vote.

I nod, and it's full of emotion I can't name. Instead of searching for one vainly, I thank all of my godparents' genes for giving me a friend like Ururu.

"Very well," says Mr. Cifer, his stony emerald eyes contradicting the implicit pleasantness of the comment. "Mr. Hitsugaya, do you accept your nomination?"

I turn to the boy I hated last week and am attempting to hate less today. I have no doubt the race will be very close—that he will probably win.

As I am stubborn and a self professed egotist, I loath failure; however, I admit—begrudgingly, of course—Toushirou Hitsugaya would be a worthy opponent.

Once again, Toushirou senses my gaze. He glances at me over his shoulder, teal eyes deep and full.

I stare back, wondering what my eyes say about me—if they read open and engaging or guarded and forbidding. If they read haunted and scared shitless like Toushirou's eyes.

I have no idea because we never see ourselves clearly.

Turning to face front, he sighs, sounding bored with the whole ordeal.

However, my intuition disagrees with that shallow assessment. I think it's more likely that Toushirou is bored with himself.

"I do," he hesitates for the span of a heartbeat. "Not."

There was no suspense in that pause, no drama. Only concession. There was no annoyance in that 'no,' no mocking. Only a disdain for losing.

A disdain we share.

Incredulous, I realize Toushirou Hitsugaya is letting me win, and for the life of me, I cannot think of a single reason why.

* * *

Revised Edition.

A/N: Miyuki is a character from the anime. She does not have a last name (goody for me), so I gave her one. She sort of looks like the kind of kid Retsu Unohana would have and the kind of sister Hanatarō would want.

Dedication: My friend Phyllis. (I occurred to me the other day that you read all of my stories but this one. I'm not complaining—the observation was merely thought provoking. Actually the observation made a lot of sense because the way you describe my work, the points of comparison and elements of style, doesn't really connect to this story at all. Originally, I counted that as a victory—I'd managed to break to of the 'tragicomic' mold, moving on to 'ugly beautiful.' However, the more we talked, the more I realized that you were pin-pointing something outside of content or technique. You were talking about me—my voice. With that in mind, I went back to _two bit town_ with new eyes. Now, I feel confident in saying that this story represents the very best my skill and more importantly the most honest reflection of my heart. I haven't written with my heart rather than my head in a long time. Too long. So, thank you for reawakening my love of the craft.)

Mare


	7. 6 up grade

My second week of high school passes in a blur of routine classes, tedious homework, and marginally more satisfying soccer drills. The only noteworthy piece of information I learned is the date and time for the soccer team tryouts—Friday, September 10th at 4:30 PM.

I'm juggling my responsibilities and soccer conditioning pretty well.

Likewise, I've managed to tolerate Ururu's incomprehensible friendship with Lilynette. It's a chore, but Ururu is worth it—at least that's what I keep telling myself.

I eked out a perfect score on my first geometry quiz—a testament to my brilliance considering the fact that Mr. Cifer called the average scores 'absolute trash.' _He must really like that word._

Of course, Toushirou got a perfect score too. His will to exceed everyone in everything hasn't abated in the slightest.

For the most part, I try to endure it, choosing to focus on my own work rather than his.

However, his drive to compete—to win—raises a few questions.

Over the following weekend, I have more time to consider the anomaly_: If Toushirou is so hell-bent on success, why'd he refuse to run for class rep?_

Then, week three of high school begins with a bang.

Mr. Chōjirō posts the result of our 'What Did You Do Over The Summer?' essays, and I find name four positions above Ururu and ten above Lilynette.

I received full marks. However, my elation is short lived.

Because my name appears below Toushirou's—my score a decisive number two. Wondering how that's even possible, I scrutinize the marks column on the list.

Instantly, my jaw locks.

Toushirou received three bonus points, thereby kicking my essay's ass.

_Okay, I might be overstating things. _

Still, my errant curiosity of his refusal to run against me for class rep receives an upgrade, becoming a nagging question that won't go away. His half-hearted abstention was just so… out of character.

My feelings on the matter are conflicted. I'm glad I won, but the fact that he's more responsible for my victory than I am is endlessly irksome.

Unsure if I want to slap him or thank him, I wait all week for an opportunity to talk to Toushirou Hitsugaya. To ask him why he let me win the election.

Because there can be no question. He _let_ me win.

I toy with idea of just approaching him, maybe asking him to take a walk with me. But I don't want to seem overeager.

So, I watch him, waiting for my chance.

Fate is less than accommodating. I can't get the white crazy-haired boy alone, damnit!

At all times, someone is talking to Toushirou or, rather, talking _at_ him. He sort of stands there—maybe listening, maybe not—nodding or shrugging or 'hmming' noncommittally.

I'm still not sure what to make of it.

Outside of schoolwork, the only time Toushirou appears alive—not comatose—is lunch break. He sits at Rukia's table, apparently too cool for my side of the Commons. He converses sparingly with Rukia, Renji, and Izuru, but largely ignores the rest of their group. Mostly, he just listens or stares out the window or plays with his cell phone.

Toushirou never smiles, and he never laughs. Which is totally strange because Rukia and her friends live to laugh.

Sometimes, I catch myself speculating, wondering if Toushirou used to laugh. And if so, why'd he stop?

On Friday morning, I sit in homeroom, observing the general chaos of dashing classmates, markedly happier today because the weekend starts at the final bell.

Mr. Cifer assumes his customary position, his depressed aura ever so slightly less depressed.

Midori asks, "Can I run to my locker? I forgot my note cards," and Mr. Cifer actually nods. She said 'can I' instead of 'may I,' but he doesn't send her to Special Ed.

_I am all shock and awe._

As has become his habit, Toushirou strolls on the razor edge of tardiness. At exactly 7:48 AM, two minutes before the bell. Instead of the casually preoccupied or death by boredom expressions he usually wears, Toushirou's eyes teal eyes are dark with malcontent, his mouth set in a grim line.

Today is not Toushirou Hitsugaya Day.

I read the class announcements, my voice slightly more keen when I read the reminder that tryouts for fall and year-round sports teams will be held next week. The soccer team competes in the spring but practices all year; hence, next Friday's trails.

Then, I pass around the roll. All the while, half of my brain wonders what has soured Toushirou's mood.

His look of severe unhappiness should provoke… I don't know: _vindictive pleasure?_

However, I find it entertaining. I also note that when Toushirou furrows his brow, there is a little crease in his forehead which reminds me of my brother.

As I sit down to order my belongings, the door of Room 4 is suddenly swung wide, actually hitting the wall.

I jump, alarmed.

The abrupt appearance of a tall, strawberry blond woman wearing acid wash jeans and a tight white tee shirt—a piss poor restraint for her _gianormous_ boobs—is startling.

I scan the room. The adolescent males have dropped their books and jaws. And the girls have turned green with jealousy—with the exception of Ururu who is incapable of malice of any sort.

Mr. Cifer is merely shell shocked.

Without preamble, the woman with big blue eyes sings, "Toushirou! I caught you!"

Surprised, I turn to Toushirou.

His eyes, wide as dinner plates, are horrified.

Quizzically, I wonder why because this woman who comes to _catch_ him is a teenage boy's wet dream.

Then, I realize I'm being pathetically nosey, over curious. I shrug it off. Sort of.

"M—" Toushirou starts, dismay—barely perceptible fear—in his voice.

"Do knock next time you barge into my classroom," interjects Mr. Cifer, his feathers ruffled by this unexpected interruption. His controlled environment is going haywire. "State your business, Rangiku Matsumoto."

"M—" Toushirou tries again to speak. The look of vague horror remains.

The leggy blond overrides him, squealing with delight as she rushes our teacher, "Oh, Uliquiorra, I was hoping I'd run into you! How is Orihime? Still cooking up a storm I hope! We ate at her diner Wednesday night. She's such fun!" She wrestles his head into the black hole between her breasts.

Mr. Cifer makes a gargling noise which, I suppose, is his ineffectual protest. His arms sort of flail.

_It's a bizarre daydream._

Predictably, everyone, save Toushirou, guffaws. I am chief among them.

Toushirou rises slowly, his palms flat against the desktop. "Mother," he says tonelessly, "you are killing my teacher." As an afterthought, he adds, "While I appreciate the gesture, I will not bail you out of jail… this time."

_Mother_? _This ludicrous, boobilitous creature gave birth to sourpuss Toushirou? _

I... there are no words—no image violent enough—to convey my disbelief, my mirth. The pity I feel for both of them because, honestly, could there be two more poorly paired individuals than Toushirou Hitsugaya and his vivacious mother, this Rangiku Matsumoto person?

I hear something that sounds like a straggled, "Immediately!" wafting up from his mother's bosom.

Perhaps, Toushirou has won some good-boy points from Mr. Cifer for supporting his cause.

Releasing her unwilling captive, his mom pouts, "But _Toushirou!__!_ You're always ruining my fun. You're such a wet blanket!"

Indignant, Toushirou's jaw muscle pulses. In a low dangerous voice, he breathes, "Why are you here?"

Rangiku rolls her eyes, pulling Toushirou's ever-present cell phone from her back pocket. "You left it in the car, so I brought it to you. Am I the greatest or what?"

The look on Toushirou's face plainly says, 'Or what.' Seemingly unable to decide if his phone is worth walking closer to his mother for fear of infanticide by booby-asphyxiation, he rocks on he balls of his feet.

The cell phone wins. "If you touch me," Toushirou warns, taking a step in her direction, "I will pour them _all_ out when I get home." He takes another step. "Every." And another step. "Single." And one more. "One."

For her part, Rangiku can only stare, agog. She gasps, "You wouldn't!" her robin egg eyes welling piteously.

As his mother is defeated by overwhelming and inexplicable grief, Toushirou manages to snatch his phone from her without incident. "Try me," he mutters, pocketing the long lost device.

Toushirou walks calmly to his desk, grabs his bag, and metaphorically runs for it, pausing only to say, "Mr. Cifer, I apologize. And thank you, Mom, for... "

Toushirou shakes his head. Lost for words. "I will see you at home," he concludes, the subtle edge of a threat coloring his speech.

_Yes, they certainly have a strange relationship. Then again, I've got Goat Chin, so who am I to judge?_

Again, Rangiku pulls Mr. Cifer into a breath-stealing hug, bemoaning her son's coldness, his cruelty. Where did she go wrong? Is he suppressing an Oedipus complex? Is he angry she only buys him black tee-shirts? Was he switched with her real son at birth?

_Deja vu, much?_

The bell rings, but I do not leave.

The image of Mr. Cifer patting Toushirou's mother awkwardly on the back is something I want to remember always. It's just one those things—the 'I was there when Ichigo got his wee-wee caught in his zipper' kind of moments.

And I am humbled; god has seen it fitting to allow me to witness history in the making.

I take it all in, eventually deciding the scenario is freakishly heartwarming. _Mr. Cifer must have a thing for busty crybabies._

Several minutes later, I'm walking down the hall, mulling the whole thing over. I am entertained, bemused, and seriously confused.

I should be laughing derisively like Lilynette—though not _with_ her, of course—but I'm not.

I'm fascinated. I commiserate. I've been here.

_Thus, I, like Toushirou, am cursed to be forever weird._

I infer: obviously, Toushirou was in a foul temper this morning because he forgot his phone in the car, and then his mommy came to the rescue. Even if he would never admit it, he must be close to her, right? Rangiku must love him a lot to go through the trouble.

Aside from that, I have to agree with Rangiku; there is definitely something wrong with her son. Toushirou is woefully addicted to his cell phone—a seemingly unnecessary item as I can think of no one Toushirou would condescend to call. Maybe, that's the bigger problem...

The rest of the day is comparatively tame. Classes continue without a further incident.

Toushirou is still a know-it-all; however, he really _does_ know it all, so I can't exactly fault him.

I want to, though.

And yet, I don't. _Odd, that._

Last period, Coach Madarame has us play dodge ball for his own sick amusement. He and the Home Ec. teacher, Mr. Ayesagawa, snicker for the duration.

In retaliation, I accidentally-on-purpose bounce a ball or seven off his shiny head, but "no one saw a thing."

The mystery perplexes him, but his attention is quickly diverted when Yachiru asks, "What's the big idea, Baldy? Why'd you keep calling timeout?"

From the proceeding mayhem, I conclude that Coach Madarame and President Hiyori should go to anger management together.

The game rages on, and eventually, Toushirou and I are the last ones left standing on our team. Because the idea of hitting me doesn't appeal to her, Ururu guns for him instead.

But Toushirou just keeps bobbing and weaving and dodging like a whirling dervish.

Yet, it's so predictable, I hardly notice. _Hardly. _

The final bell rings, and my third week of high school is over.

Today adds another day to the eleven previous—way too many—that I didn't to talk to Toushirou Hitsugaya. Another day I don't know why he let me win.

I stew in ignorance, unnecessarily pissed.

_It's so not cool._

After Friday Feast—a _scrumshillyumptous_ pizza pie—I sit, chin over knees, on the toilet lid while Yuzu takes a bubble bath.

"So, did you ask him yet?" she asks, lathering strawberry shampoo in her hair.

I sigh, aggrieved, "Nope." I brush my nose against my jammy pants, muttering acidly, "He's always _with_ somebody. For such a snotty little guy, Toushirou is in high demand."

Yuzu splashes around, rotating so she can shove her head under the faucet. She replies mock-seriously, "Yeah, even you want to talk to him."

I lift my head, not appreciating her seldom employed sarcasm. "I only want to find out why he didn't run against me. He's so hell bent on winning everything else. "

Yuzu tilts her head thoughtfully, bubbles hanging off her nose, noting, "You might have mentioned 'only wanting to find out why he didn't run against you.'" She pauses theatrically, qualifying, "like forty thousand times. A bit... defensive, maybe?" Then, Yuzu grins too wide.

I scowl at her, grumbling, "Oh, shuddup."

Shrugging, Yuzu pulls her rubber duckies from the net suction-cupped to the tile, asking, "So, let me make sure I've got this right. You followed Toushirou around all week, looking for a chance to talk to him. You've been giving me progress reports every night at bath time. And you still haven't decided if you're mad or glad that he let you win."

I can feel my face burning, fifty percent anger fifty percent mortification. I stutter, "I-I'm just an observant person, okay? I'm glad I won but pissed he _let_ me win! I haven't talked to him yet because… I've been busy, alright? You know, busy doing stuff!"

_I admit it. I'm totally lame._

Yuzu nods absently, making one duck kiss another duck.

Her expression turns abruptly speculative, peering over at me through narrowed eyes. "Karin, I get that you're observant," Yuzu tells me, lifting a hand covered in bubbles, miming her commentary, "but you never notice what soda _I_ get from the coke machine or if _I_ tie my shoes the bunny-ear way or the hand-over-hand way."

Firmly, I object, "You tie your shoes bunny-ear style and tie everything else hand-over-hand. As for soda, Yuzu, you pick a different one every goddamn day!" My defense is more than sound.

Besides, when I tell Yuzu about Toushirou's habits, the information is _always_ delivered in the form of a compliant.

Yuzu rubs conditioner in her hair, expression closed, trying to find the right words, "That isn't the point, Karin. I meant generally speaking you're not interested in every little thing everyone does. Just listen to yourself, Karin! Why do you know how I tie my shoes and what drinks I like?"

I refuse to answer—_can't_ answer because I don't really know. _Very weird._

I frown.

Yuzu watches my face closely. Taking pity on me, she lifts a hand full of bubbles, blowing them at me.

They hit me face. Yuzu giggles, but my remote expression remains.

The bubbly water dripping down my shirt doesn't have the desired effect. I'm still all knotted up in my head.

Perplexity reaching critical mass, I need to get out of here.

Yuzu sighs heavily, admitting defeat. "The roof?" she asks softly, recognizing the symptoms of input-output overload.

"The roof," I agree, yearning to abandon the conundrum in deep space. I stomp away, bubbles popping with each jerky motion.

Walking—jogging, really—down the hall and into my bedroom, I feel better. The residual Ichigo-ness of the room kills my lingering feelings of confusion. I've never felt uneasy in my big brother's room.

I throw the window open, the humidity of late summer an abrupt change from the air-conditioning in the house. And that helps too.

I swing up off the sill, hanging on the gutter. Hand over hand, I shimmy up the roof tiles, their blunt edges snagging the bottom of my nightshirt.

Finally situated, I lay back so the mundane parts of the world—Mr. Komamura's satellite dish, the roofs of neighboring houses, light poles—disappear.

Just me and the stars and the big fat moon. It's nearly full tonight.

Our roof is my spot to think alone. When I need to get away from the familial chaos, I come here to watch the universe spin. I'm not sure what I love about it, why it captures me.

The night sky is heedless, completely oblivious to whatever havoc drives me to the roof. Up here, my problems always seem smaller because they don't matter on this immense scale.

Idly tracing constellations with my finger, I consider Yuzu's question, reliving our conversation in a less turbulent state of mind.

She's reading too much into this, but she has a point.

Maybe, I _am_ too involved.

Toushirou gave the commencement speech, and that stung my pride. He knows everything, and that bugged my brain.

Then, Rukia told me he's not so bad, and that got me thinking. I'm class rep because he let me win, and that got me wondering.

I conclude: he got under my skin.

So now, I must be logical in order to remove my Toushirou-splinter. I need to purge myself of stalker-ish tendencies and incidental curiosity.

I sift though my observations and conjectures, but they amount to little because I don't really know Toushirou Hitsugaya at all. And my interest is based on that ignorance.

The stars and the big fat moon, the black-blanket sky and low hanging clouds, hover over me like the answer. Like if I reach out to grab them, I'll grab the answer too.

I suppose that's it, then.

I have a question—I've been obsessing over the same fucking question all week. So, overeager or not, I have to ask Toushirou Hitsugaya why he let me win, and maybe all the other things I've been feeling—stung pride, bugged brain, thoughts, wonderings—will resolve into something I can grab on to.

* * *

Revised edition.

Dedication: My friend Yasmine. (You've been a supporter, a hardcore fan, of _two bit town _from the very beginning. Eventually, our talks—our little game of cat and mouse—evolved into something entirely unrelated to this story. Along the way, you became my friends as well. Hence, your high opinion of _two bit town_ is all the more satisfying. And don't forget: you still have a must-answer question hanging over my head. I tremble in fear.)

Mare


	8. 7 just deal

Saturday dawns bright and sunny, momentarily pushing last night's unwelcome conclusions into some obscure corner of my mind.

"It _still_ hasn't ended?" I shake my head, regretting the action immediately because I'm overheated, "Jeez, Mr. Kaname, you've been holding up that sign for as long as I can remember. It's said the same damn thing for as long as I've been able to read. You'd think it would have happened by now."

I jog in place, standing in front of a blind, lanky fellow with a sun visor and dreadlocks. Around his neck swings a cardboard poster reading, "THE END IS NEAR." The black man stiffens, his remaining senses testing the atmosphere.

"Kurosaki," he says knowingly, his head tilted slightly, "Injustice is the death of humanity. As long as man abides it, we shall all perish."

I nod gravely, wondering why I bother. "So… same old, same old, eh?" I sigh; the man is a lost cause.

Mr. Kaname Tousen has stood on the corner of High and 9th every Saturday since his wife died in a drunk-driving accident. The driver was an out-of-towner—a rich asshole with a flashy lawyer. Thus, the asshole got off with a slap on the wrist.

Karakura was livid. But, Mr. Kaname… he was inconsolable. He sort of lost his nerve, quit teaching philosophy at Karakura Junior College and gave up his Zanjutsu class at Muguruma Gym. Now, Kaname Tousen is the town eccentric—spending the majority of his time ranting about the impending apocalypse and the general suck-iness of the universe.

It's pathetic and...

Incredibly sad.

Well, "Dude, I get it, but don't you think it's about time to put the sign down?" I ask the same question every Saturday.

And every Saturday, the answer is—"Kurosaki, if you truly understood, you would stand beside me."

In that respect, Mr. Kaname is right. I really don't understand because all I can do grimace, preparing to depart his droll company with an overly enthusiastic, "Have fun, then! Catch you next Saturday."

He never seems to notice.

Running, feet hitting the ground in time with the percussion blaring from my headphones, I cross 2nd onto Yamamoto Memorial Boulevard. A looming statue of our town founder and first mayor Captain Genryūsai Yamamoto watches over passersby with sightless eyes.

Not for the first time, I am thankful I never met the man. Ole Man Yama, as the locals refer to him, strikes an imposing figure with the sole exception of the pigeon currently crapping atop his head.

Up ahead, I catch a glimpse of the shiny purple hair of a woman wearing black cargo pants and an orange tank. The color combination turns my overheated stomach.

Posted beside Aunt Yoruichi is the ever circumspect Soifon, bodyguard to the mayor of Karakura. A self-appointed position to my knowledge.

Soifon never fails to annoy me, so I consider turning down a side street to avoid the incidental meeting.

It's a crying shame, though, because chatting with my godmother is always entertaining.

Before I can make a break for it, I catch Soifon's mouth form the words, "Mayor Shihouin, the second to youngest Kurosaki child at 6 o'clock." Or maybe I'm just imagining it because it's the same goddamn intro every time we bump into each other.

_Shit, I've been spotted._

Aunt Yoruichi spins on her heel, her face radiant with pleasure.

I grin hard, arguing, "Didn't I tell you I prefer to be called 'the second to _oldest_ Kurosaki child?' Are you stupid or something?" I glance at my godmother, sharing a private joke. Her reflexive smile is near blinding.

Soifon looks away pointedly, apparently scoping the mundane scene for mortal enemies.

I take a moment to scrutinize my aunt. Honestly, no one in Karakura compares to Yoruichi Shihouin. She's the very definition of independent, gorgeous, and unafraid. Everything about her exudes self-confidence. She's fearless.

I admit that I'm biased, but who can argue with my opinion? She's the mayor, the mother of my oldest friend Ururu, a Hukada and Hohou Master, and the domineering wife the most unruly man ever born. A staggering résumé.

_My godmother rocks hard. And I admire her._

"Karin Kurosaki, you hot young thing! Out for a morning run?" she exclaims, "I_ know_ you're not in the shopping district to buy shit." Aunt Yoruichi waves me over, her tattoo of a cat catching a butterfly running down her left shoulder and disappearing beneath the clingy fabric of her shirt.

Every time I see it I smirk wryly, momentarily lost in the memory of my godmother showing us just how far down her shirt the tattoo goes. Ichigo swore he was blind for at least three days.

I jog over to the pair, shaking my head as Soifon stiffens. The petite woman with waist long braids—_seriously, how can she fight without choking herself?—_is pissed because my presence means she has to back the fuck off for five minutes. The woman is nuts-overprotective. As if my hero can't defend herself.

_Pst._

I call back, "Hell yeah! I'm trolling the fancy stores for pink party dresses," adding in a pirouette for emphasis.

My aunt laughs, turning and beckoning me to follow suit.

I cut the music spilling from my headphones, power walking to keep up with her long strides.

"All cheek aside, I'm just on my Saturday run," I tell her, "I'm up to three miles to and back," I glance over surreptitiously, brimming with smugness.

Aunt Yoruichi sighs heavily, "Only three?"

My face falls dramatically. That is not the reaction I wanted. Not at all. I'm following her training regiment, damnit! The least I could ask for is a 'good job, Karin.'

Aunt Yoruichi's brown sugar hand falls onto my shoulder as she reassures me, "Just teasing. You're doing really well." As an afterthought, she adds, "You should see your face."

To this, I grin so big my cheeks whine. I bat the compliment away, replying with fake nonchalance, "Yeah, yeah. But I have a long way to go before I catch up to Ururu. Damn girl runs two miles every morning and six on weekends. If she doesn't break your 10-k record, I'll eat chocolate covered grasshoppers."

My aunt's hand squeezes my shoulder unconsciously, her pride so potent the day seems suddenly brighter. "Thank god my baby inherited the best of us. If Ru doesn't break _all_ my records, I'll join you for dinner," she laughs.

I'm always awed by the ferocity of her love. Sometimes I forget how much she loves stupid Uncle Kisuke, but then she starts talking about 'Ru.' Then, comments like 'the best of _us_' start pouring out left and right.

I envy Ururu—I'm not jealous—it's just, I envy her. My mother's dead, so she'll never threaten to throw my kindergarten teacher in jail for putting me in timeout. My mom won't ever cheer so loud at my little league games, the announcer tells her to shut up over the PA.

Of course, I know my mom probably wouldn't have done those things specifically because she wasn't anything like Aunt Yoruichi.

I've heard all the old stories so many times I could probably tell them like I was actually there.

Yoruichi, Hisana, and Masaki. They met their first day of preschool and were inseparable from that day on. Together, they're the stuff of legends: the pranks they pulled and the boys they loved fiercely.

All the other little things.

Because of their friendship, I don't believe in soul mates, or, rather, I don't believe in the strictly one-for-one-romantic kind of soul mates. There's another kind of soul mates—the sisterhood in girlfriends. Aunt Yoruichi, Aunt Hisana, and Mom were soul mates of that sort.

So, it's not surprising that my aunts are especially protective of Ichigo, Yuzu, and I. It's almost dutiful like a final gift to their sister in all but blood.

Aunt Yoruichi pauses on the sidewalk, her warm grip halting my progress and jerking me out of my digressing thoughts.

I look up at her quizzically, wondering why she suddenly stopped.

My godmother rummages in her innumerable pockets for a second, pulling out a pair of vintage sunglasses. Once the wide-lens accessory is securely in place, she touches my cheek, speaking in an oh-so-serious voice, "Look, I know this isn't really my place or anything, but you're in high school now and there's bound to be some things you just _can't_ talk to Goat Chin about. So, when that happens, you call me, got it?" Her words are pretty standard—I mean, what godmother would say 'don't call me when you're in trouble?'—but I can tell she's struggling. "… But only if you want to obviously."

Impulsively, I hug her, telling her—reminding her—bracingly, "You're the most badass godmother anyone ever had. And thanks for the offer and… Damn it all to hell, just thanks, okay?"

Aunt Yoruichi nods, brushing my black bangs to the side, peering into my blue eyes so much like my mother's. She smiles down at me warmly, admitting, "Well, my being badass goes without saying."

Still, I'm not fooled. The sunglasses can hide the pity in her uncommon gold eyes but not in her voice when she says thoughtfully, "Isn't it weird? The three of us got our daughters all mixed up. Hisana got little Masaki, I got little Hisana, and Masaki got little me."

"Yeah," I mutter. "Yuzu's some freaky new breed."

Because nothing more can be said—there simply are no words—I pull away, laughing and wondering why I avoid the purist form of affection with jokes and grins. "Go buy more orange shirts, Almighty Ruler of Karakura! Maybe a new hat for your ludicrous husband. I'm out-y!" I salute her mock seriously, imitating Siofon's rigid form.

Laughing, Aunt Yoruichi spanks me with a buoyant, "Hell yeah!" Then, she turns away, speaking animatedly to Soifon the Unnecessary.

I plug my headphones back into my ears, taking a deep breath in preparation to run.

_To run away hard. _

I'm not sure what I am running from, not sure where I'm running to.

My funk from last night returns with a vengeance. It puts me in queer mood.

I close my eyes, searching my tumultuous brain for a destination, confident that anyone on the street knows me well enough to jump out of the way as I charge past.

Closing in on the edge of Rukongai Park, I steel myself. Running Rukongai Park will add about two and half miles to my jog, but soccer tryouts are next Friday. I need to look sharp, to push my limits. Tacking on a few extra miles couldn't hurt.

I race through the West Gate and turn left onto the bike path, a long stretch of uneven ground dotted with obstacles. More specifically, bicyclers.

I weave and twist around them, pivoting and sidestepping. A few of the pedal pushers get so nervous they fall over. More than few yell warnings or vitriol.

But their words are lost on me. All I can hear is the mod rock music blearing from my earphones. The words of my favorite songs push me farther, my feet pounding the pavement to the beat of the drums.

One stride, two—skip a few—ninety-nine, one hundred...

I'm lost in the relentless motion, following the path as it hugs the border of Seireitei District, leading right out onto West End Beach.

Gradually my breathing becomes difficult, and a stitch in my side screams in protest. My tank is already soaked with sweat, and my knees are beginning to tremble.

But I will not surrender to my wimpy body. Eyes shut tight and gritting my teeth in concentration, I will myself to continue forward.

Just then, I run into something solid, slamming my forehead.

The impact must have rattled my perception of reality because when I open my eyes, the spiky white head of Toushirou Hitsugaya swims into view.

"Great," I moan, rubbing my temples, "Just fucking wonderful." _Could my life be any more cliché; who's writing this shit?_

Last night, I decided I would interrogate him, but 'right now' wasn't part of my plan.

Toushirou winces, shaking off imaginary flies.

Simultaneously, we pull off our headphones, glaring at each other contemptuously.

Without preamble, he asks in tones of accusation, "Are you following me? Why are you everywhere?"

Indignant, I huff, "Following someone by slamming into them from the opposite direction seems a piss poor method. Don't flatter yourself."

I straighten, feeling mildly self-conscious wearing only biking shorts, a sports bra, and one of Ichigo's track tee-shirts with the arms and bottom cut off. The effect is less than modest, leaving little to the imagination.

I cross my arms over my chest, scowling past my embarrassment.

For his part, Toushirou mirrors my action, his brow raised in disbelief. "You didn't answer my last question." He is nothing if not thorough.

_Ugh._

Seething, I mutter, "Here I was, thinking you were _so_ smart. Or maybe you're too self-absorbed to have noticed that I'm running. Or, at least, I _was_." I add bitterly, "And I'm not 'everywhere.'"

Seriously, if anyone is everywhere, it's him. Homeroom. Every class but Spanish. Currently standing in my way like he has every right to be there or something.

Sporting jogging pants and a black tee-shirt with the words "Just Deal" printed on the front in large white letters, I conclude that he's been running too.

I watch him shrug stretching a hamstring with a bored expression.

The thought bypassing my brain-to-mouth filter, becoming an audible question, I wonder, "Why are you running _here_?"

Bristling silently, Toushirou returns his gaze to me, wary of divulging personal information. "I run the bike path everyday," he replies tonelessly.

I roll my eyes. "You live in Gotei Heights with all the beautiful people. Your neighborhood has a _private_ park. Don't you need, like, a passport to cross into my side of town?"

Toushirou smirks, tilting his head imperceptibly, challenging, "At least I _have _a passport. Where have you ever been? You've probably never even been on my side of town."

_Hmm, resentful of small town living much?_

Unfazed, I smirk right back, replying, "The Kuchikis are family. They live in Gotei Heights; so I know all about your snobby park. And just for the record, you're a very short, very stuck up asshole."

Toushirou merely brushes me off, too dignified to respond to the insult. "Why am I even talking to you?" he wonders aloud, "You're unpleasant at every turn." Then, he glances down at his iPod, preparing to abandon me.

Not even remotely ready to let him off the hook, I object, "_I'm_ unpleasant at every turn? And that makes you what? Unbearably pompous? Omni-absent?"

Because I've watched him ghosting around, alive only sporadically when awakened by competition.

Arms folded again, Toushirou almost manages to hide his clenched fists. His narrowed eyes travel up to my face slowly. He says with unnerving calm, "Kurosaki, don't pretend to know me."

_Oh, don't I know it! _

In this moment of hostility, I'm spurred on by frayed nerves from living in his shadow for weeks. I'm sick of sitting in the corner, watching him win and wondering why his only loss was intentional.

I snap, spitting the words, "You're absolutely right. I don't know you, but you don't know me either. So, why don't you explain yourself to me, _Hitsugaya_? Why don't you tell me why you're an insufferable know-it-all! Why don't tell me why you're present but never all here!" I widen my stance imposingly, demanding, "Tell me why you didn't you run against me for class rep."

Toushirou's teal eyes flash, traversing too many emotions to register coherently, chief among them is disbelief, confusion, and… fear?

Apparently, I have gone too far, infringed upon virgin ground. I wonder which question provoked the confusion. I wish I knew which question provoked the fear.

That weak look on his face is intolerable. I don't like it. It makes my hands itch to slap him.

Because I've suddenly decided—I guess I knew it from the beginning—that he's my 'worthy opponent.'

"I," he starts, stunned beyond witty rejoinders, "… don't owe you an explanation." His arms folded across his torso suddenly take on a different aspect. It's almost like Toushirou is holding himself in, struggling to maintain his perfect posture.

I eye him suspiciously, half surprised he hasn't run away yet. I suppose he's so wrapped up in himself, the idea of flight hasn't occurred to him.

As the silence grows awkward with unspoken words, the subtext unfathomable, I drop my gaze, arguing (read: sort of begging), "Of the last, you _do_ owe me an explanation. I need to know why."

By degrees, Toushirou emerges from his stupor. "No, I don't. Just thank me, and move on." His arms fall to his sides, teal eyes denying everything.

I nod with deliberate slowness. "Move on…" I murmur, frowning in contemplation of that inane directive.

This goddamn town doesn't let anyone move on. In way or another, we're all prisoners here of our own devices. Karakura is a fucking hamster wheel, every path only a circle. Everywhere leading you back to the place you started.

Wry, I tell Toushirou, "Thanks for the useless advice, but I don't think I will. One day, you're going to give me the answers."

I stare into Toushirou's uncomprehending teal eyes defiantly. Pointing at him, I channel the certainty my dad excludes when he is _sober_, declaring, "You can bet your life on it."

I replace my headphones daftly, heedless of Toushirou's blank expression. I inhale the last dregs of summer, the sultry scent reenergizing my limbs.

As I run forward—not away—I wave carelessly, calling over my shoulder, "Just try to keep me away!"

Running full speed ahead, I revel in my sudden excitement. Finally, I've unraveled the conundrum—part of it at least—that's been plaguing me.

Just like everyone else, I am a Karakurain. Extrapolating further, I must conclude that I'm running in the twice-fucked hamster wheel, too. So run all I want, any street I choose will only lead me back here, back to the beginning.

Fighting the natural flow of thing—whatever force is driving me in Toushirou Hitsugaya's direction—is like fighting gravity. A doomed effort I'm not stupid enough to invest.

I want the answers to my baseless questions. And then, when I have those answers, maybe I'll understand why I care so much. I'll understand why I want to know at all.

I grin, thinking of his tee-shirt.

_Toushirou will just have to deal.

* * *

_

Dedication: My friend Moon of Jupiter (Sharing our love of art—all forms of art—is always interesting. You're work is lovely, and it's always fun to review something in another medium. Speaking of, your reviews of _two bit town _are the most thorough and insightful of any I receive. I'm always impatient to read them.)

**For those of you who have never seen her work, go to Moon of Jupiter's homepage and click on the link labeled "my fanarts."**

Mare


	9. 8 ubquitous grins

Monday mornings usually blow, but this Monday is special.

I'm on a mission, totally rejuvenated. I plan to beat Toushirou—hopefully into submission. One way or another, I'm going to defeat my worthy opponent.

Turning left off of Rukon Boulevard and onto Shoten Drive, Yuzu skips backwards, grinning ear to ear.

"So, he asked if you were following him, and you said 'Don't flatter yourself,' and then what?" she babbles. Yuzu has an unhealthy interest in my social life.

Trying for equanimity, I shrug. "We just sort of talked for a minute. Then, I booked it." As an afterthought, I add, "I might have told him something about the futility of avoiding me." I glance at Yuzu dubiously, assuring her that, "All said in the coolest manner, of course."

Yuzu chuckles, "Oh, I'm sure." Blinded by giggles, she nearly trips on an imaginary obstacle.

Meanwhile, I flush three shades of mortified.

Between gasping breaths, Yuzu verbalizes her awe, "Seriously? N-no broken bones?"

I frown, wondering why my sister isn't normal—_why can't she just walk forwards instead of backwards?_

This skipping business is fucking with my equilibrium, and carrying her teddy bear schoolbag and daisy print lunch box is taxing my self-image.

Sighing, I reply, "Other than the mild concussion I've already described, no. Nothing broken."

Her brows wrinkle under the weight of deep contemplation. Preparing to rant, Yuzu inhales deeply, eventually blurting, "No threats, insults, blind hatred, venomous glares, or name-calling?" Directly following, Yuzu doubles over, hands on knees, laughing much harder than the situation warrants.

To her question, some yes some no. But Yuzu doesn't need to know that, so I remain silent.

Arms crossed defensively, I glance away from Yuzu's incoherently chortling form. Before I can scowl darkly and sigh aggrieved, my attention is drawn away by the chaotic scene three blocks down the street. Right in front of Karakura High School.

"... Muguruma Gym..," I mumble under my breath, my unoccupied hand pulled up to combat the sun's glare. Blue and red lights flash, and the crowd gathered on the sidewalk is remarkably quiet, obviously listening to something.

Yuzu looks up from her awkward position, honeycomb eyes confused. "What does a gym have to do with anything?"

I grimace, stubbornly denying the fact that I've begun to connect things to Toushirou Hitsugaya at random. "Um..," I stutter. "Nothing."

Then, I rally, explaining (read: lying), "It's just Sheriff Kensei Muguruma is in front of school right now. It looks like there's been an accident."

Yuzu straightens immediately, worry replacing confusion and fear replacing mirth. She rushes to stand beside me, grabbing my hand. "Should we run back home and get Dad?" Yuzu asks. "You don't think… one of our friends…"

Unwilling to voice that concern lest she tempt fate, Yuzu quivers compulsively.

I interlace our fingers—a show of solidarity—and smile reassuringly. "If anyone is hurt, it would be faster to call Dad from school," I reason, "and Uncle Kisuke would have already called him or Dr. Ishida if Aunt Hisana couldn't handle it."

Glancing at Yuzu sidelong, I say calmly, "Here, take your stuff, and we'll go together."

She nods mutely, taking her school bag and lunch box. As soon as the items are back in there rightful positions, Yuzu's hand returns to mine.

We jog into the throng amassed in the horseshoe shaped drive, pushing our way through unappreciative schoolmates. Because Yuzu is rendered useless by her anxiety, I search for familiar faces—anyone who can tell us what the hell is going on.

Nearly defeated, I glare up at the uncooperative gods. And there, floating high above the crowd, I spy the back of Rukia Kuchiki's overlarge head. Finding this anomaly almost too much for my overactive brain to take, I use Rukia's inexplicable height as a reference point, wending our way to her position at the front.

This lesser curiosity is resolved as Yuzu and I grow nearer. Rukia is perched atop Renji's shoulders, a juice box in one hand and an infection grin on her face. Renji is laughing.

Perusing the bystanders, I find most of them in various states of humor—one blue-haired upperclassmen is rolling on the ground laughing. Izuru's eyes are open so wide his eyebrows have disappeared beneath his angular fringe.

Turning to the main event, I have to rub my fists into my eyes to make sure I'm not hallucinating.

Standing beside me, Yuzu pinches my arm.

"Ouch!" I yelp.

Unabashed, Yuzu mini-shrugs, whispering, "I had to make sure I'm not dreaming."

Renji interjects quizzically, "Um… when you check if you're dreaming, aren't you supposed to pinch your own arm?" He seems genuinely puzzled.

I do not deign to reply, choosing to focus on the goings-on on front of me instead.

Four men are standing in front of two faintly smoking automobiles.

"Damn nutter ran into my truck, Chief!" argues a lanky youth, his spaghetti arms gesticulating wildly, "Just fucking look at Santa Teresa! She's a fucking wreck!"

I scrutinize Santa Teresa, which, I suppose, is the name Nniotora Jiruga has given his vehicle. 'Santa Teresa' seems a misnomer. The monster truck with a_ gianormous_ grill—a grill which is suspiciously reminiscent of its emaciated owner's pointy grin—doesn't look very saintly to me. The back end of the truck has been rushed by a boxy van.

I internally groan. Everyone knows that van—_The Van_—covered in color caricatures of deformed babies. My dad told me Mayuri Kurotsuchi tried his hand at selling ice-cream, but it didn't really work out. Apparently, flavors like Essence of Charred Flesh and LSD infused fudgesicles don't sell like hot cakes. Still nursing the blow after all these years, he never repainted his ice-cream truck.

Mayuri simpers, "I have come to retrieve my offspring. Nemu is a silly girl. Such a nuisance." _Holy hell, is he wearing a toilet seat on his head?_

Mayuri begins to twitter to himself maniacally, "But no matter, I have reclaimed my wayward youngling. She will fold the laundry and sweep the floors. Fluff my pillows and cut my waffles into little bitty bite sized pieces…"

In this moment of half-baked ludicrousness, we collectively wonder who Nemu Kurotsuchi's mother is.

No. No woman would volunteer for _that_. It's more likely that Nemu was conceived in a Petri dish.

"Right," says Sheriff Kensei, shaking his head, "First, Nniotora lay off the swearing. You're just a snot nosed brat; so you're not allowed to use big people words." He turns to Mayuri with the air of one who wishes he'd never have gotten out of bed this morning, "Kurotsuchi, have you lost your fucking mind?" Our sheriff pauses, yielding to the obvious. He tries again, "Never mind. Okay, I'll use small words so you can understand, yeah?"

Mayuri makes a high-pitched quibbling noise, oblivious to the question. At any moment, the toilet-seat-wearer may break out in a happy dance.

Still, our trusty law enforcement officer—our _only _law enforcement officer—preservers, "Do. You. Have. Proof. Of. Insurance?" He mimes his question in a dogged effort to extract an answer he'll never receive.

The fourth man huffs in annoyance. "Kensei, just throw his ass in jail." Coach Zaraki scratches his chin, a vaguely thoughtful expression on his face, addendum-izing, "Throw them both in jail. Nniotora's been tagging on school property again. There's a huge double sickle graffiti-ed on the baseball team's scoreboard."

Beside me, Renji stiffens, taking offense, no doubt, to the degradation of his precious baseball field.

Predictably, Nniotora objects, "Hey, old man, you can't prove I did that! I haven't been to school since last Tuesday."

"Delinquency and truancy," sighs our sheriff, "Off to a great start this year—your _third_ senior year."

Turning away, Sheriff Kensei asks Coach Zaraki, "Personally, I have no doubts. But do you have any evidence?"

Coach Zaraki grins harder, informing our sheriff, "Nelliel Tu Odelschwanck saw him at it when she went to check the track team's timeslot for tryouts." If it's even possible, his massive grin widens further, "_And_ the fucking idiot signed the damn thing 'Santa Teresa.'"

Sheriff Kensei nods approvingly, noting, "Nelliel—hellova javelin thrower. Great kid. Good family." Returning his gaze to Nniotora, he continues, "Signing the damned thing. It's a wonder you even made it to high school—there isn't a functional brain cell in your body."

"Brain cell! Brain cell! Brain cell!" Mayuri chants.

I choke, holding back laughter, unwilling to miss a single thing.

"Nel, that bitch! I'm gonna carve her up next time I see her," Nniotora rages.

Just then, Yachiru squeezes her way to her father's side, shaking her diminutive fist vehemently and yelling, "Don't talk about my hero that way, you pathetic, sniveling loser. You touch a green hair on Nel-bell's head, and I'll be callin' you Deadman." Yachiru's bubblegum pink eyes flit up to her father's face, silently asking him to back her up.

Coach Zaraki nods emphatically, cracking his knuckles.

"Oh, shut up, little daddy-worshiper. No one asked for your fucking opinion," Nniotora retorts scathingly.

_In addition to his lack of brain cells, Nniotora was born without a survival instinct._

Sheriff Kensei has to step in front of 'Daddy' to prevent bloodshed.

"Talk to my daughter that way again, and I will carve _you _up," Zaraki threatens, adding, "After my wife burns you alive."

The atmosphere turns lethal, and no one doubts the validity of his threat.

Yachiru leans out from behind Zaraki's hulking form, declaring, "Yeah, and after they cook you up and slice you down, I'm gonna give your eye patch to our hog Big Bonnie. 'Cause you give eye patches a bad name!" Then, she blows Nniotora a raspberry.

Coach Zaraki looks down on his daughter fondly, fingering his eye patch.

Everyone aside from the central players merely gapes.

Sheriff Kensei clears his throat, "Well, I'm taking you both in. We'll straighten the rest of this… _mess_ out at the station. And Mayuri, you better pray I get you out of here before my son—"

"Dad! Dad, what happened?" Shuuhei Hisagi calls, racing onto the crime scene, "What the hell's going on?"

"—shows up," our sheriff finishes lamely. He turns to his adoptive son, a diligent imitation of a smile on his face. It is the opinion of most Karakurains that Sheriff Kensei Muguruma only smiles—tries to smile—for his son.

"Oh, this?" he says, gesturing vaguely, "Nothing, just a routine incident. In no way does this involve Nemu Kurotsuchi, so do not search her father's van. It has nothing to do with her; hence, nothing to do with you."

The sheriff's orders rings like commentary because as he speaks Mr. Hisagi does exactly that. Halfway through the 'nothing to do with you' part, my journalism teacher bodily removes Mayuri from the front of the van's side door, heedless of the nut-job's sycophantic ranting or flailing arms.

As the door slides away, we all—even Nniotora—lean in closer, holding our breath, anxious to see what's inside.

"Damnit, Dad!" Mr. Hisagi yells, "You haven't checked the hold yet? He's got her bound and gagged!"

The pretty science nerd topples out of the van. However, in a fit of gallant manliness, Mr. Hisagi catches her before she hits the ground.

"Are you alright, Nemu?" he asks her quietly, "Did he hurt you?"

As best as she is able, my science teacher shrugs.

A brief and ultimately ineffectual struggle ensues—during which Mayuri tries to tug his daughter out of Mr. Hisagi's arms and Mr. Hisagi growls like a mother lion protecting her cub. Meanwhile, the damsel in distress remains blank faced, safely tucked in my journalism teacher's arms.

Sheriff Kensei intones gravely, "Kidnapping—even if Nemu is your kid—is a crime. I didn't believe you were actually serious." He shakes his head, pulling a snapping, snarling Mayuri forward. The town sheriff handcuffs the town-crazy, pushing the prisoner to Coach Zaraki for safekeeping.

"Alright, Nniotora assume the position," orders the sheriff, walking up to the gangly youth with a severe expression.

Visibly uncomfortable, Nniotora argues, "Man, you must be taking the piss. No way in hell I'm getting in back with _that_!" He points his bony finger at Mayuri.

_I never thought I'd feel this way, but I'm filled with pity for Nniotora_.

A crisp carrying voice interrupts the proceedings, "Nniotora Jiruga, I'm sure we've managed to teach you something during your time here. But, if not, I'll educate you now. My young friend, you have rights. So, kindly invoke the fifth one and shut up."

Uncle Kisuke—in full headmaster-mode—arrives in dramatic fashion, waving, "Good morning all! Lovely to see my pupils so lively this early in the day."

My godfather spins to Sheriff Mugarmura, calmly informing him, "I have already called Love's Body and Repair. He and Gangu are on their way to pick up the cars, so that's that. Yoruichi will meet you at the station to straighten the rest."

As an aside, Uncle Kisuke says, "Nniotora, you're suspended for until Friday for the graffiti—not that you would've shown up anyway, but…" Shaking his head dejectedly, my godfather's voice trails off.

Sighing, Uncle Kisuke returns his attention to us. "The bell will ring—," he checks his wristwatch, "—in five minutes and fourteen seconds." He crosses his arms, chin resting on his fan, wondering aloud, "You wouldn't have any place else to be right now, would you? Your sunny faces would not be better served jammed in a book, would they?"

Taking his none-too-subtle hint, we begin to disperse in twos and threes, alternately grumbling and laughing, leaving the _grown ups_ to their own devices.

Enjoying her momentary height advantage, Rukia declines Renji's offer to, "Get the hell off of me, woman."

Instead, she shares her opinion of this morning's events with us, "Did you see the size of Santa Teresa? Nniotora is definitely overcompensating."

Yuzu merely looks puzzled by the allusion, but Renji, Izuru, and I grin.

Izuru nods vigorously, adding, "I'd love to see him try to 'carve' Nelliel up." He mimes a shot through the heart, stumbling dramatically.

"Yeah, man. She'd fuck his world five ways to Sunday," Renji concurs, chuckling.

Yuzu, Rukia, and I snicker.

Changing the subject with an air of disinterest—a contrived air of disinterest—Rukia tells us, "Hisagi is so into nerdy girl. He's got a major thing for her."

The mental picture of our journalism teacher in love with our science teacher puts stars in Yuzu's eyes. She pipes, "I think they would be really cute together; don't you, Karin?"

"Sure, real heartwarming," I agree sardonically.

Renji eyes Izuru, adding insight to our speculation, "Oh, everybody goes through 'the digging Nemu' phase. Uryuu had it real bad his junior year, and our pal Izuru, here, was practically in love with her all last year."

"I was not!" Izuru objects, blushing, "I just… think she's a nice looking lady, that's all. She's a very thorough teacher, and her knowledge of anatomy and physiology is… um, intriguing."

From on high, Rukia laughs boldly, "Too true, Izuru! Kind of makes you wonder what she could do to you with all that knowledge. Makes _me_ want to ask for tips."

I grimace, eternally grateful that the implications of Rukia's statement fly over Yuzu's head. "Dude," I groan, "don't say shit like that in front of me. Your boyfriend is my brother."

Breaking off from the group before Rukia can say anything else horrifying, I turn toward the Mathematics and Sciences Building, yelling over my shoulder, "Catch you fools later! Have a really good day, Yuzu!"

At the top of the steps, I'm taken aback finding Toushirou Hitsugaya leaning very casually against the railing, playing with his ever-present cell phone and utterly oblivious the students rushing by.

_How…_ _coincidental._

I wasn't really surprised that Toushirou did not condescend to join the masses in observing this morning's festivities. However, his current location is suspiciously well chosen. This vantage point provides a sweeping view of the street. From the top of the stairs, Toushirou has clear shot of the car accident.

Thus, I deduce that Toushirou, no matter how much he pretends not to care, must harbor some normal-kid-curiosity. Perhaps, his interest in the world around him is merely hiding behind his too-cool-to-breathe-the-same-air-as-you attitude.

Impulsively, I sidle up next to him, glancing over his shoulder with practiced stealth.

What I discover on the screen of his phone makes me hug myself, laughing so hard passersby stare at me questioningly wondering if Mayuri's insanity is catching.

"Tetris?" I ask incredulously, "Seriously, that's what you've been doing with your phone? _Playing tetris_?"

_I like the brain-squeezing game too, but I had no idea it was habit-forming._

Stiff as a board, Toushirou spins on his heel, snapping, "If you aren't glaring at me, you're slamming into me. If you aren't slamming into me, you're yelling in my ears. In the future, try saying 'hello' first."

I frown, perplexed_. _

'_In the future' would indicate like… future conversations, right? Is Toushirou saying what I think he is saying?_

I scrutinize his face suspiciously.

Toushirou flips his phone shut, moving to open the heavy steel door. Holding it open, he pauses, obviously waiting for something. As two seconds become eight, Toushirou raises a brow.

His pause merely adds to my confusion.

Toushirou scowls, asking, "What's with the face, Kurosaki? Are you are coming or aren't you?"

Casually cool, I walk into the building and pause to stare at a poster on the wall. Not that I actually care what it says—I don't even really see it because I'm watching Toushirou out of the corner of my eye, getting the timing just right so he has no choice but to walk _with_ me down the hall.

All with while, I'm trying so damn hard to contain my grin.

* * *

Dedication: Blue turtle. (Your reviews always amuse me—even if I'm never able to figure out what they mean. However, your suggestions are always intriguing. This chapter was originally written at your request, and so it remains almost entirely in its initial form. If that doesn't deserve a dedication, I don't know what does.)

Mare


	10. 9 dramatic aliens

**Apache** as in the Arracncer, one of Tai Harribel's three Fraccion. She does not have a last name, so I gave her one. Torres-the meaning seemed apropiate.

* * *

After a relatively subdued start of the school week—the complete opposite of Monday morning's chaos in the schoolyard—my classes drag on. Basically, a yawn-fest.

However, Friday resurrects the drama with a vengeance. In more ways than one.

Apparently, Nniotora returned to school today after one day in jail and a three day suspension. He celebrated his first ever punctual arrival to Karakura High by accosting Nelliel in the hallway on her way to Calculus.

By the end of first period, everyone in school is aware of the incident—Mashiro Kuna broke into the administration office and made an unauthorized but colorful announcement. According to her, the confrontation between the feuding seniors teetered precariously on edge of violence.

By the end of second period, the story has evolved: Nniotora had come at her, yelling about 'women in a man's world;' Nelliel had called him a 'child,' stepping around him carelessly.

By the end of third period, the story reaches epic proportions: Nniotora had come at her with a switchblade, demanding that she lose her "goody-two-shoes mask;" Nelliel had called him 'pitiful' and then knocked him unconscious so she wouldn't have to waste him in front of everyone.

Speculation spreads like flu—though people are speaking behind their hands, not sneezing into them.

Who saw that? Were you there? Did you hear?

Then, the unthinkable occurs.

Halfway through fourth period Geometry, I'm staring opaquely at a trapezoid when Mashiro's voice shatters the trance-like stupor only Mr. Cifer can inspire.

"Breaking news! Mashiro here, coming straight to you from the scene of the incident," she tells us—the entire school—brightly, "Only moments ago, Mr. Hisagi was seen following Ms. Kurotsuchi out of the mail room. While on their way out of the office—_together_—Mr. Hisagi was reading a letter of some sort when he bumped into Ms. Kurotsuchi, causing her to overbalance. Directly following this _physical contact_, Ms. Kurotsuchi dropped her box of dead frogs on Mr. Hisagi's foot. After ki—"

Mashiro's news reporter voice is abruptly cut off, only to be replaced by Uncle Kisuke's loosely disapproving tones, "Mashiro, you're in the office _because_ you used the PA without permission, and now you use the damn thing again?"

The ensuing verbal spar exists only in our imaginations because the PA goes suddenly silent halfway through, "_But_ Headmaster—"

This news in conjunction with Nniotora's idiocy—because, face it, challenging Nelliel is super stupid—spawns a frenzy the likes of which I've never experienced. The rumor mill spins at double-time, each conversation running into the next, all of them revolving in a figure eight around the antagonistic pair and the lovey-dovey one.

The ludicrous state of things reminds me of a social experiment gone awry. A testament to the old adage, 'Give them cake.'

Walking awkwardly to the Commons, destabilized carrying my soccer duffel bag, schoolbag, and lunchbox, I overhear a tiny, blond upperclassman cheer, "Alright! The school year's finally started!"

From this jolly pronouncement, I deduce that, while this mayhem is totally alien to me, it's a common—_fun_—occurrence to most of the other students.

I blame the fish bowl-ish standard of living in this two bit town. In loo of anything truly stimulating, Karakurains manufacture news. It's a thriving industry, perpetuated by a lack of amusement parks.

Lunch is louder than usual—the compounded buzzing not quite reaching sonic boom level, but it's a near thing.

Everyone at my table sits around, replaying for the umpteenth time the car-accident-freak-show-rescue-damsel event in front of school on Monday.

I yawn, bored with this conversation, trying vainly to block out the "awe's" and "ah's" arising from Yuzu's suggestion that Mr. Hisagi ask Nerdy Nemu to marry him on Christmas Eve.

_How lovely. Gag._

Deciding that I could survive without knowing the ending of Yuzu's imagined blockbuster romance, I rise from my seat to throw away the trash from my lunchbox.

Standing at the far end of the Commons, I examine the recycling bins, annoyed by my candy bar wrapper.

_It looks like paper but feels like plastic. So, which is it?_

I'm just standing here stupidly, glaring at a piece of trash like it has insulted me in some way, when Toushirou informs me, "It doesn't matter which one you throw it in. Candy wrappers are non-recyclable." He begins to separate the contents of his tray with practiced ease, giving the impression that it's completely normal to talk to me.

_Wait. What?_ I whip my head toward him, shock flagrant on my face.

Quickly looking away and back down at my candy wrapper, something super intelligent like "Oh" falls out of my gaping mouth.

I peek over, quite pinkish, I imagine.

He sort of nods with one brow raised—he probably thinks I'm weird but knows it's impolite to say so aloud—turning back to his half-cleared tray.

I chuck my non-recyclable wrapper into the purely-trash-can with more force than I intended.

And, of course, Toushirou notices, gaze flickering from the trashcan to me, bewilderment plain.

"Sorry," I mutter sullenly, "I'm just… annoyed." _With myself._

Then, Toushirou says something super intelligent too. "Oh."

_Somehow it sounds better when he says it. _

Deciding that I've already blown any cool points that may—or may not—have been on the table, I continue (read: sort of lie) animatedly, "Yeah, people are so easily amused, you know? I mean recycling stuff is good and all that. But recycling gossip should be a crime. It's gonna pollute the planet," using my hands to illustrate.

Toushirou stares at me like I'm a rare species of bird. Then, he nods again, though this time with more conviction. "Same over there," he tells me, pointing over his shoulder toward his table.

Trying to ignore how much this unexpected interaction pleases me, I ask with fake indifference, "What are they doing? Picking baby names for the happy couple?"

Toushirou shakes his head, commiserating _with_ me, replying, "No, they're placing bets on how long Nniotora will last in a fight with Nelliel. It's infantile, but they seem entertained."

"Oh, I don't know," I argue lightly, "I'd bet my life that Nel destroys his ass."

I glance around Toushirou, catching Rukia slap Renji upside the head with her water bottle. "Are they always so… intense?" I wonder, wincing.

Toushirou's answer is quick and decisive. "Yes."

He stacks his tray on the million other trays on the sideboard. "Right, well," he says unnecessarily, "I'll be going now."

I laugh.

_Who_ _would have thought Toushirou Hitsugaya capable of an awkward exit?_

I call after him, "Put me down for five bucks on Nel beating the crap out of Nniotora in three minutes flat!"

And then, Toushirou does the most extraordinary thing, turning over his shoulder. He smirks ruefully, objecting, "_Three_ minutes? I'm putting my money on under two."

After returning to my seat, I do the habitual thing, pretending to listen to Lilynette ramble on and on about soccer tryouts after school—apparently, she managed to move the conversation away from inane drama mongering.

As soccer-ranting has become a habit of hers, I'm of the opinion that Lilynette thinks talking about the trails will somehow force time to speed up.

I'm impatient too. But I push the impending climax of my athletic career—my entire life—into a compartment of my brain marked Pandora's Box.

If I really start thinking about what's ahead of me, I'll hurl, losing the super-special-energizing lunch Yuzu packed for me this morning. Then, I'll have no carbs which means no fuel. Then, I'll mess up everything…

_Stop!_

However—as is the fate of all Pandora's Boxes—the damn thing will only stay shut for so long.

All school related thoughts fade into nonexistence as the day draws to a close.

I'm pretty sure my teachers taught us some stuff. I'm also sure that that 'stuff' will eventually matter.

But for now, it's just a buzz in the background, playing second fiddle to the sound of my heart beating loud in my ears. I simmer in this feeling, a frenetic mixture of excitement, alarm, and desire.

A potent drive to prove I belong because my family is an extravaganza of wicked cool. They've all achieved feats of awesomeness.

In the immortal words of my godmother, "We own them."

This is my chance to stake a claim, and if I'm very lucky, I'll carve out my own place. A top spot that's mine and no one else's.

And I have everything I need to succeed. Hence, fuck doubt! I'm not going to start doubting my abilities. Not now; not ever.

Last period in P.E, I basically 'phone it in,' thinking in shades in gold. When the final bell rings, the sound reminds me of coach's whistle. And I grin hard.

I have forty-five minutes to kill before tryouts, but I'm too jacked up to sit around picking daisies. So, I grab my stuff and swing the gym door wide, rushing out of the building before anyone else has picked up their bags to leave. I see a few faces I recognize—Rukia tries flagging me down—but I don't have the wherewithal to chit-chat. I can't handle other people right now. I don't think other people can handle _me_ right now.

Because I'm already in my gym clothes, I don't have to change. The only things missing are my cleats, shin guards, and tube socks. So, I plop down on one of the more secluded concrete benches doting the campus, intent to complete 'my look.' I tug my gear out from the blackhole-bottom of my duffel ball, shucking my loafers at the same time.

I pull my much abused shin guards up both legs. Too hell with my footie-socks—I just slip my tube socks right over them. Then, I shove my feet into my cleats furiously, tying and retying the laces until they feel just right.

As this fit of industry only lasts two minutes, I start meandering to the grassy, all-purpose fields at the very back of school behind the Commons. All the while, I'm thanking all of the in-between-summer-and-fall gods that the sky is clear and the sun has decided to take its time setting.

On this winding journey to my destiny, I find other students gathering in two loosely connected groups at the edge of the soccer field directly across from the equipment shed.

Dropping my bags and lunch box on the ground, I join the others, smirking rueful. I scan my competition, counting them, noting their grade levels, and applying names to faces.

As of now, we're just an impressive group of wannabes. I'm not going to sugarcoat the situation. I have to earn my pride before I start stroking it.

There are twelve of us at this point. And of the twelve wannabes—eleven excluding myself—I've only played with four of them: Kamin Saito, Ren Tanaka, Mami Itou, and Yua Kimura. All of them, like me, are freshmen.

The five of us played little league at Karakura-Seireitei Recreational Park; so evaluating four of my longtime teammates as opponents is jarring. But I don't have a choice.

Kamin Saito is still wearing the standard black KSRP jersey. She's is a goalie—an excellent one—constantly throwing out these little one-liners guaranteed to crack your game face.

She and Ren Tanaka are standing together, shuffling their feet in unusual silence.

Well, Ren's silence isn't all that unusual. She's a broody defender, a marginal sweeper with the glowing exception of her uncanny ability to get under the ball. If soccer was about spiking with your head instead of your feet, Ren would kick all our asses.

But the game isn't about spiking with your head, and Ren's no match for me.

Mami Itou is pussyfooting off to the side, yawning. I have nothing to worry about on her account. She's in over her head.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Yua Kimura biting her nails, forehead creased. Yua is good; a smart midfield anchor. Her game is über-cerebral, probabilities and brackets—x number of balls times four dribbles equals one goal_._

Sighing in a discombobulated sort of way, I turn to the other seven wannabes—the proud alums of Hueco Mundo Park and Fields.

Or the "white team" as I refer to them.

I don't feel the same level of confidence when looking at these seven wannabes.

Save one—a short, black-haired girl with a pink tattoo of three stars stamped across her forehead—I recognize all of them.

_My eternal rivals. Ugh._

The only real surprise is Apache Torres, a sophomore-_ic_ bitch standing next to a girl with royal blue hair—I'm ninety-nine point thee percent sure her name is La Cienega something-or-other.

At the moment, I don't care what her last name is because I'm having a mental dysfunction.

Apache Torres is not supposed to be here, damnit! She hasn't played soccer in four years. Last I heard, she was playing softball.

_Why, god, why?_

Unable to stomach the sight of Apache's mismatched-creepy-eye makeup any longer, I consider the other HMFP creepers.

Immediately, my eyes fall on two laughing freshman girls wearing matching white flanged headbands.

It's hard miss to Ximena Mendez and Nevada Jimenez because of their absurdly colorful hair. Ximena keeps it cool with a peppermint green bob, and Nevada's hair calls to mind the song "Rainbow Connection."

Ximena's the most overly curious person in the world. If she wasn't so busy lodging the ball down my throat, she'd probably ask my favorite color or try to guess my birthday. In direct opposition, Nevada won't ask me a damn thing, but she'll tell me everything she's noticed, right down to a thread that's come loose on the hem of my shorts.

I've always found them freakishly well paired. Maybe they should merge into one being—thereby creating a single well-adjusted person.

On the other hand, it's quite lucky for me that they are_ not_ one person. I can take either of them and win every time, but when they work as a striker team… not so much.

Turning away from the gruesome twosome, I find another familiar face—this one belonging to sophomore Yesenia Soto. She's staring straight at me with her protuberant cyan eyes wide and weird. Just like always.

"Kurosaki," she says softly, like someone might identify a canned good at the supermarket. Her otherworldly personality suits her position; as a goalie, Yesenia needn't interact with other humans often.

My four comrades—'the black team' as we are known to the Hueco Mundo crowd—shuffle nervously. Yesenia might as well be an alien from another planet—which is a real possibility—judging by the forbidding glower Kamin is sending her way. Even Yua finds enough interest in this odd meet-and-great to emerge from her daydreams.

I clear my throat, replying guardedly, "Yo."

Yesenia barely nods her head, a brief but undeniable sign that I exist in her alternative universe.

The moment shatters the instant Lilynette Starrk sidle up beside Yesenia, giving her a look of deep disappointment. "I don't care if you talk to the rest of them," Lilynette asserts, "But talking to _her_? God, Soto, I thought you had taste."

Yesenia Soto turns away, looking off into the melancholic distance and murmuring, "She's rather interesting, is she not? There is darkness in Karin Kurosaki."

If I wasn't descending—_regressing_—into the blind adolescent hatred I have felt toward Lilynette from the moment we met, I might tell Yesenia to seek profession help.

Instead, I go to toe to toe with Lilynette, just close enough to be mildly threatening, and whisper, "That's funny, Lilynette. Real cute. Did you know I asked Ururu the same question using almost the exact same words? Only, when I asked her why she'd want to be around such a first-rate creeper, I meant _you."

* * *

_

Revised edition.

Dedication: Moon of Jupiter. (I owe you in a major way for lending me a hand on these names. Now that I have a little distance from the nightmare these two chapters were to write, I'm all the more thankful for your expertise. I imagine that these chapters would have been un-writable if I hadn't been trying so hard to make them worthy of your effort.)

A/N: These are first four of nine OCs I have written for this story. They were inspired by nine readers who have affected this story in a "game changing" way. However, the character corresponding to each reader is stylized to fit what I needed to round out this and following chapter. Because of this, I had to merge my ideas of you, nine, as people to the characters Karin needs to compete against. So, it can't be roses and sunshine all the time.

That said, this is not their last appearances. They will reappear now and then in the interest of a legitimate sized grade level.


	11. 10 wanna react

"Enough!" yells an I-mean-business voice.

Turning unwillingly to the field, I find one of my brother's best friends Tatsuki Arisawa. This is her first year coaching which must feel weird because she played on the team last year. If she hadn't fractured a vertebrate at the end of last season, Tatsuki could have played for any college lucky enough to get her.

Complete with whistle and clipboard, she is in coach-mode, standing imposingly in front two large bins on rollers.

I swallow hard.

"Alright, rule number one. No bitching on my field," Tatsuki informs us, "I don't care how good you_ think_ you are. If you can't pull it together and act like an adult, you won't play on my team."

_Apparently, my attempt to subtly convey my Lilynette-induced rage wasn't subtle_ _enough_.

My complexion shifts from humiliation-red to mortification-white. I'm in deep shit because, even if Tatsuki is talking to everyone, she's mostly talking to me.

Tatsuki frowns at us darkly to bring the message home.

Bringing her whistle to mouth, Tatsuki sounds two shrill blasts. "Line up arm's length apart, so I can get a look at you," she orders.

The intensity in the atmosphere skyrockets as we jog onto the field and space ourselves evenly, unconsciously keeping close to our former teammates.

Then, we wait.

Tatsuki eyes us shrewdly, jotting notes on her clipboard as she scans the line. Occasionally, she half nods to herself.

"The hell?" Tatsuki mutters, pivoting on her heel and running over to the black haired girl with the pink tattoo. Hands in fists, Tatsuki rails, "In case you're too stupid to have noticed, this is an _all female _soccer team. Therefore, you don't qualify. Get the fuck of my field, Luppi. Go be weird somewhere else!"

On the HMPF end of the line, several people snicker. Curious, I lean forward to see what's happening over there.

This Luppi person whines, "But why? You're not a girl, but you got to play on the team," adding as an afterthought, "Sorry," like that's going to make up for calling Tatsuki a man.

Raising a hand to her temples, Tatsuki offers her take on the situation, "Go now, or I will call an acquaintance of mine to remove you. You might know him—tall, blue hair, a bit violent, hates you… Are you getting any of this?"

Luppi's mouth falls open into a perfect 'O' of shock.

"Yes," Tatsuki reiterates, "That bastard owes me a favor."

Before I can fully process this—_a girl who is really boy who called Tatsuki a man who is going to call a real man to remove this girl-boy_—a jubilant cry of, "I'm here!" cuts through the metaphorical red-tape protracting higher brain function.

And I'll be damned if Yachiru Zaraki isn't jetting across the field like pink gumball out of a slingshot, waving her arms around like there might be a chance we've missed her.

Slamming to halt at my end of the line, Yachiru exclaims, "Wow, look at the turnout! So cool!" Her big eyes start zooming around excitedly. "Hey, who's in charge?" she asks, bending to the side to see around Tatsuki's shell-shocked form.

Utterly oblivious, Yachiru frowns with her hands on her hips, demanding some kind of an answer. As none is forthcoming, she notes, "Ya'll are so weird."

Shifting my gaze back to Tatsuki, I gauge her reaction to this late addition, and I'm pretty sure I hear her grumble, "I'm not old enough for this shit," under her breath.

I have to bite my tongue to keep from laughing. _Yachiru is here to tryout for the soccer team?_

Finding a female soccer player in Karakura who I don't know is a statically anomaly, evidenced by the fact that the only wannabe I didn't recognize turned out to be a boy. The idea that I could have missed Yachiru Zaraki is far beyond percent error. _Impossible._

However, Tatsuki doesn't seem all that perturbed by Yachiru's sudden appearance. She merely turns her attention back to her previous problem.

Then, her face goes sort of blank and odd.

Perplexed, I check the line to see what the girl-boy is doing now, but I can't find him.

"He escaped while you were diverted," Yesenia explains, her voice ambivalent.

I don't ask. And neither does anyone else.

Shrugging it off, Tatsuki walks back to her previous post in the middle of the field, silently reading and rereading the list of names she compiled.

The fact that she didn't have to ask a single person for a name is a true testament to 'small' part of this small town.

Tatsuki folds her arms behind her, the clipboard flesh against her back. For a long moment, she just stares at the grass—still green but turning gold at the tips.

This is the true beginning. And so, we straighten. Some of us proud, some arrogant, some afraid, some merely following convention without a care in the world.

For my part, I just straighten.

Then, Tatsuki starts her real-deal speech, intoning gravely, "There are eleven of you—well, twelve with Zaraki. I know you've been playing against each other for most of your lives, and I don't give a damn. If you want in, you'll have to grin and bear it. And then, you'll have to learn to enjoy it. My team is about winning—not competing but winning—_as a team._

"In order to form a team_,_ everybody's got to be on the same page. Listen closely because I want anyone who can't accept these guidelines to clear out before we start.

"I don't care about your other activities, your homework, your pets, or your boyfriends. I don't want to know about your cramps or your new acne meds. I don't even care what position you used to play. Keep your personal bullshit for a time when and place where people might actually give a damn. As in, not on my field.

"I won't tolerate misconduct of any kind. If you get caught cheating, fighting, smoking, drinking, or whatever else might mar the reputation of my team, don't bother showing up for practice because, as far as I'm concerned, you're already gone. This includes offenses outside of school. The sheriff brings your ass in for a DUI, I'll know about it before your goddamn parents do. Lying about this sort of thing will get you nowhere.

"My team practices year-round on Tuesdays and Thursdays from 4:30 PM to 6:00 PM. During the off-season, that is the set schedule. During the season, we practice on Saturdays as well from 9:30 AM to 11:30 AM. Miss practice once, maybe I'll look the other way. Twice, you're pushing your luck and you'll pay big time. Three times, you're out.

"Because of the abysmal lack of competition here, my team plays tournaments not individual games. Some of you have played on an all-star travel team, so you know what I mean. But for those of you who don't know, playing in tournaments is intense and grueling. Instead of two games in a week, you might play four in a single weekend. That said, the level of play in our tournament league is far and above a normal inter-high school schedule.

"These are my rules and my conditions. If you can't hack it, leave. I won't waste my time deciding if I can use you, only to find out later that you can't commit.'" Tatsuki stares us down one by one, daring us to stay.

I can feel them—us—steeling ourselves like one might when looking across the ocean right before jumping in to swim across it.

Next to me, Mami Itou starts wringing her hands, knowing the physical punishment of tournaments is beyond her. Emerging from her silent argument, she sighs, "I'm out."

There are eleven wannabes now.

Tatsuki pulls her clipboard forward, crossing out a few things and adding others. Distractedly, she informs us, "Alright then, I want three laps around the field to warm you guys up. This is not a_ race_, just a warm up. You'll do this in silence. And after you're done, start stretching. We'll start drills after that."

Nodding fiercely, I join the assembling pack. My focus is severe as we begin to jog. I put extra weight into every step because my usual warm-ups are longer and more intense. My muscles loosen, and every stride becomes easier.

After three lapses, I waste no time, coming to a stop and leaning down to touch my toes in the same movement. I need to stretch thoroughly. Flexibility is not my strong point, the downside of spending the most of my career fixated on power and speed.

While we prepare, Tasuki spaces standard orange cones to form a ten yard-ish square. Then, she returns to her bins, leaning against the rim, trying to decide when we've done enough.

Without a word, she grabs soccer balls from the bins and starts humming them at us. For the unlucky wannabes at the HMPF end of the line, the balls bounce off their heads, legs, or feet. The rest of us see it coming and act accordingly.

Loath to use my hands, I take the hit with my stomach, forcing the momentum downward. The ball comes to rest as my right foot lands atop it, and I feel a bit smug.

But Yachiru outshines us all, ducking the ball and then bending her leg back at the knee to kick it up from behind her. The ball sails back over her head, landing right in front of her.

_I… no, I've got nothing._

After pummeling us, Tatsuki explains why she did it, "Soccer is a fast game, the ball flying in one direction then another in only seconds. You'll have to be more attentive if you want in."

Pointing at the cones, Tatsuki instructs, "Because it's the most fundamental skill, we'll start with drilling. You each have a ball. At my signal, run around the square dribbling as expressively as possible. This includes turns, feints, and tricks with both feet. Give me more than forward motion.

"After five minutes have elapsed, I'll decrease the size of the square by approximately five feet. You'll have thirty seconds before repeating the drill. We'll continue for three sets, decreasing the area each time until it's about five square yards. I don't want see bunching—pacing is part of the drill."

I study the square, trying to guess what Tatsuki's looking for.

She's a stickler for skirting the touchline, practicing ball control endlessly. I'll need to choose path precariously close to but never inside the invisible line between the cones. And I'll need to make it obvious, so she can see what I'm attempting.

Following the wannabes before me in line, I halt four feet from the people in front and behind.

Then, Tatsuki blows her whistle, and I start moving, resolved to focus on my own dribbling and pay no attention to the others.

My turns aren't pretty, but they're effective and tight. I've been working to equalize my ability with both feet because I've always favored my right. Mixing my turns with feints, I throw a shoulder in the opposite direction I'm turning the ball. Sometimes, I let the ball drift backward between my feet, pivoting to retrieve it and spinning the ball on a new course with the inside of my foot—a dummy turn.

As for tricks, they're sort of my thing. My repertoire requires a lot of body, bouncing the ball up off tops of my feet to catch it with anything other than my hands. I can do lots of fancy things, but most of them aren't practical in a game setting. Hence, I doubt Tatsuki gives a damn if I can kick the ball straight into the air, handspring forward, and then catch the ball on my knee. She would think that mighty ridiculous since it'd be faster to run forward.

So, I leave tricks for last, narrowing my list and considering ways to minimize the flashy-factor.

Tatsuki blows the whistle, signaling our first thirty second break, and we stop immediately.

I can't help myself. I search the line of wannabes, looking for signs of tress.

My KSRP teammates are in varying states. Kamin's a goalie, so she's wearing an uncustomary frown because this isn't 'her thing.' Ren is all about bouncing shit off her head, and she integrates that into her dribbling as often as possible. Yua's sporting a calculated expression, but I have no idea why.

Of my white rivals, Apache looks utterly bored, peddling her ball between her feet. Ximena Mendez and Nevada Jimenez don't look happy; they prefer to working as a team, gifted with seamlessly coordinated passing. Lilynette is frowning down at her ball, her intense concentration unreadable. The other two aren't in my league, so I don't bother.

I glance at Yachiru. She's sitting down and appears to be braiding clovers into a chain. Proof that my powder puff is nuts.

The whistle calls us into action once more, and this time I have to be more conscious of the people before and after me, sure not to go too fast or too slow and cautious not to cross the invisible line.

I stick to safer moves, half of my brain plotting away. I factor in the ever decreasing perimeter of the square, deciding which tricks to scrap.

After another break—in which I have neither the time nor the gumption to evaluate my competition—I focus inward, integrated the most effective moves to show my range.

Unconsciously, we perform the final set much slower, being more careful. Timing is everything when you're dribbling in a line of ten around a five yard square.

I'm determined to leave it all on the field.

I turn and fient, embellishing to set up the tricks I'm comfortable executing. I let muscle memory do the rest while I skirt the boundary line.

Jogging ahead of the ball, I bring it back by angling my leg backward. Then, I draw the ball in a figure eight motion between my feet, a practical trick and impressive skill.

But there is only one thing missing—something Tatsuki will notice because she's seen me practice and play numerous times. I've yet to step outside my zone of experience.

In a game situation, I can't always stick to 'safe.' Soccer is too fast a game to rely solely on plays or formations. That's what separates a good player from an exceptional one—the ability to react rather than just act.

Scowling a bit, I try a combo I've only managed once by accident, hoping that Tatsuki isn't looking if I fail.

In order to do this, I have to set up a problem first—a common error in trajectory which will totally fuck you over if you can't react in time. Getting the top of my foot under the ball, I send it flying backward over my head instead of knocking it back down with my shoulder or chin. Then, I _react_, backpedaling so I can redirect the ball the instant it hits the ground.

All does not go to plan. I get there too slow, and the ball ricochets off the heel of my left foot, bouncing up in an awkward position that probably won't land on my body or the ground in front or behind me. It's going to land off to the side. And the damn ball doesn't bounce high enough for me to pivot in time to spin it forward when it touches back down.

Doing the only thing I can, I sidestep to at least get under it, praying like I've never prayed before that it hits my head. But it doesn't.

The ball lands in between my shoulder and the back of my neck. Taking the hit, I roll its momentum around my neck, leaning forward slightly.

And the ball rolls off my opposite shoulder, coming to rest right between my feet.

If I had more time, I'd cheer, dancing a victory dance. But I don't have time.

Abruptly, several things register as I come down from my panicked-high. First, I've stepped inside the invisible line marked off by the cones. Second, I lost my place; the wannabe behind me has passed me up without even noticing. And third, Tatsuki is staring at me with an inscrutable expression, brow raised.

_It's an odd feeling—so intense—when you go from dizzyingly high to rock bottom in seconds flat. _

I swallow thickly and wait to be lapped, so I can reclaim my place in line. From then on, I keep it safe and familiar.

And I keep a brave face—like nothing has changed—because that's another important skill.

Knowing how to recover after you've made a mistake.

Tatsuki blows her whistle for the final time, letting us get some water and rest for ten minutes while she drags a bazillion orange cones out from the bottom of one of her bins. She jams them into ten stacks, their edges snapping to secure them in place.

Meanwhile, I retreat into myself, shrugging off my colossal error in judgment and plotting a brilliant return to grace.

"Alright," Tatsuki says, calling us to order once again, "Next up, 'step jumps."

A collective groan.

Step jumps. Probably the most boring and draining drill ever created.

Tatsuki half-smiles at our mutinous faces, arguing lightly, "Hey! No one's forcing you to be here. You can leave at any time.

"This drill won't win any popularity contests, but I need to gauge your stamina and leg strength. So you whiners are going to stand beside a stack of cones and jump over them—forward, backward, and sideways—until I tell you to stop.

"You'll be jumping for thirty seconds with thirty second breaks in between. Four sets. In between jumps, the time spent on the ground should be kept to a minimum. I want to see clean, quick jumps. None of this 'look how high I can go' business because you need to conserve energy for two-on-two-plus-one drills later."'

No one moves, but I can practically feel Kamin Saito warring with herself. She's a goalie, a specialized position with no need—or desire—to do step jumps.

Kamin steps forward and raises her hand to speak. Tatsuki points her immediately, silently permitting her to speak.

"You've already got a goalie, right?' Kamin asks, "You probably know that goalie is the only position I've ever played. You said that you don't care, but I'm not stupid or arrogant enough to think I'm a utility player. So give it to me straight. Should I stay here? Will it matter when I tryout again in a few years after the current goalie graduates?"

Tatsuki tilts her head slightly, considering her words before she replies, "I respect your willingness to stay even though you know what's coming. You've got your head on straight, and I like that in a player. You don't have to participate, but you can stay and watch. It'll give you an edge when you tryout again because you'll know what you need to work on to be a better all around player."

Kamin sighs heavily, rocking on the balls of her feet. Then, she turns away slowly and jogs over to the side of the field where all our bags are massed. There, Kamin plops down to watch, pulling out a binder to jot down notes.

Also a goalie, Yesenia Soto follows suit without a word.

The sound of Tatsuki's whistle draws my eyes forward. "Well, what are you wannabe's staring at? I don't have all night to baby you. To the steps. Let's go."

I shake my head wryly. Tatsuki's really going to give me hell.

If I make the team.

* * *

Revised edition.

Dedication: My friend and writing partner Victoria. (I tried my hand at writing an action sequence in this chapter. I know you're relying on me to improve in this area, a woeful lacking in my previous work. So, I tried very hard keep it clean and visual. I await our judgment.)

A/N:

An English foot is roughly 30 centimeters. (30.48 cm)

An English yard is roughly 1 meter. (.914 m)

Mare


	12. 11 sweet success

I'm back. Been a while, my lovelies! I've missed you, but I'm back. This is a double update night. Unfortunately, this ffnet decided to reformat everything. So give me some time before I can post the next chapter. Like an hour, kay? 3

* * *

_Damn. Right in the fucking knee_. The backtrack to my graceless face-plant into the dirt is Tasuki's whistle. My knee joint is wailing, a tiny tantrum under my skin, because Lilynette's less than clean steal sent me careening to the ground. _Bitch._

"Alright, you can stop." Tatsuki yells over the din, "I've got everything I need to post the results on the athletics' bulletin board on Monday morning." Her job done for the day, her air of authority wanes, and she relaxes her stance. "Go drink some water. And get your asses home to take a shower because you guys reek."

Easy for her to say considering she didn't spend the last hour and a half switching in and out of two-on-two-plus-one drills playing every position and with every wannabe at least once.

I lower my head, letting the tension ease out of my sore limbs. Glaring at the grass, I will the green blades away from my face, but I'm in no condition to actually pull myself away from them. I'm… pooped.

"Whatcha doing down there, Switchfoot?"

I merely grunt, flipping over to find Yachiru staring down at me with her hands on her hips. She tilts her head to the side slightly, obviously unsure what to do to me. Not for me, _to_ me - the toe of her shoe is slightly raised and aimed for my side, prepared to nudge me if I don't answer.

"Switchfoot?" I ask tiredly, rising slowly to sit.

"Yeah, definitely gifted with both feet. My mom says, 'Always leading with one foot is a sure way to get backed in a tight spot.'" Then, my Powderpuff grins toothily, basking in her borrowed brilliance.

Which reminds me, "Why are you even here? You don't play. Or, at least, I'd never seen you play soccer."

Yachiru leans over, giving me a hand-up, and shakes her pink head ruefully. "Thought it'd be fun. You and Skulky-head go on and on about it, so why not?"

_Lilynette equals Skulky-head?_ I confess myself amused.

"Right," I mutter, "Thanks." I rub my knee, wincing. Choosing the focus on the positive, I silently thank god that it's not a serious injury, just a flesh wound.

"Okay, so maybe I'm not being totally honest," Yachiru admits, looking at me piteously. Misinterpreting my pained expression, she apologizes, "Sorry! No need to get all bent out of shape 'bout it."

"Bent… huh?" I shrug, not caring and unwilling to talk about bending things out of shape. Lilynette nearly benched me for the season. _If I make the team, _I berate myself_._

Setting my gaze on my bags, I steel my resolve and begin limping off the field, and Yachiru bounces after me, talking in a low and serious whisper, "My mom made me a deal I couldn't refuse. Who was I to turn down a lifetime supply of gummy-bears?"

Leaning over to grab my duffel, I wonder how these subjects are related or if, perhaps, Yachiru's brain doesn't work the same way normal brains do. "Am I missing something? Did your mom actually bribe you to tryout for the team?"

"Nah," she grumbles, "I had to make the team. She knew I'd flake out if I had a loophole," putting air quotations around the word 'make.'

I frown, both disapproving of her presumption and admiring of her confidence. "Have' not '_had_.' You didn't make it yet. And who's your mom anyway?"

Yachiru shrugs, clearly unmoved, replying, "Kukaku Shiba. Odd name, that. Too many 'k's, if you ask me. You ever notice how weird it is to say your parents' names? Like, you never think of them like that, so it sounds wrong. Kukaku Shiba. See? It still sounds all wrong."

"Shiba? As in… is this a joke?" I glance around, looking for bystanders who might back me up on this, but Yachiru and I are two of only a handful of stragglers. Nobody speaks, too tired to care or too wrapped up in themselves to notice.

Yachiru shakes her head miserably. "Too serious, I'm afraid." Sighing, she explains further, "Soccer's her thing. Mama would'a set the world on fire if she hadn't lost the arm. Says she still could've gone pro if she hadn't been a goalie. You sort of—"

"—need both arms for that. Yeah." I interject tonelessly. Inwardly, I'm bowled over. _Holy wow. Shiba plus Zaraki equals Powderpuff_. It's not sane, and yet it is. "You do know your mom's the best soccer player to have ever been born in this shitty town? I mean - no offense - but I thought you'd suck. But you don't, and I was confused. And now… I'm not." After getting that out, I feel at peace once again with the bizarre trip-switch of this world. "I think I'm going to leave now," I decide dumbly, shouldering my bags and ignoring the urge to leave them behind. "See you 'round, Powderpuff."

Yachiru waves fiercely, calling after me, "See you at the noticeboard Monday. Wait for me if I'm not there yet 'cause I want to victory dance together!"

I don't answer - not because I don't want to victory-dance with Yachiru - just... I don't want to make any plans based on that blessed outcome. The moment I start thinking I'll make the team is the same moment I tempt fate into fucking me over.

Pushing all soccer and Powderpuff related thoughts to the remotest corner of my mind, I pull my last water bottle out from the side pouch of my lunch box. Keenly aware of overheated limbs, I try not to drink the water too fast, knowing that it'll come right back up if I do. The pain in my knee dulls, irritating but not debilitating, and I start my long trek home, enjoying the cooler weather marking fall's eminent arrival. Cutting through the admin building to the front school which opens onto Shoten Drive, I idly consider taking the bus. Nobu, my godparents' oldest ward, drives the bus, and the route stops here at 6:30 PM. His is quiet, soothing company, and it'd be nice to just sit and stare out of window for a while before I have to deal with Dad. But Yuzu's probably waiting, and I'll get home quicker if I walk because the bus route continues in the opposite direction for about twenty minutes before heading back east to Karakura Proper. So, no luck for my tired legs.

Or maybe, better luck than I thought because a black jeep pulls to a stop right next to me. More importantly, this particular black jeep belongs to none other than Ichigo Kurosaki, the wayward brother I haven't seen in nearly two months. Elated despite my shock, I clamber over the passenger side window, tapping on it. I try to add two and two together but nothing seems to equal four. "Why are you here?" I ask breathlessly as soon as Ichigo's head appears beyond the tinted glass.

"Depends," he replies after a moment of thought, "Which 'here' are you talking about?"

Throwing the back door open and jamming all my crap into the backseat, I chew on that bit of cryptic-ism. "Okay… why are you in Karakura?"

"Oh, that 'here,'" he replies as if showing up from university unexpectedly in a tiny town two hours away isn't a pressing curiosity.

I throw him as impatient look as I climb up into the seat and buckle in. "Yeah, what about practice?" I inquire suspiciously.

"I don't have training this weekend because classes start on Monday, so I thought I'd come home to visit, " he explains defensively. "And who are you to keep tabs on me, little sister?"

Smiling ruefully, I jest, "Well, I am 'my brother's keeper.' But, yes, I'm happy you're here. I've missed you." As Ichigo turns the car around to head home, I guess affably, "Friday Feast must have more pull than I thought. The gravity of Yuzu's cooking could raise the dead, don't you think?"

Ichigo pretends to check the mirrors, but I catch the ghost of smile flash across his face.

Switching tactics, I guess again, "Or maybe it's not your stomach missing Yuzu's food at all. Maybe, it's another part of your body missing a certain dark haired midget with big purple eyes..."

"Shut it before I turn the car around and drop you off the cliffs at West End Bleach," Ichigo grumbles, ears very red. "Don't talk about stuff like that. It's... it's indecent!"

"…I meant _your heart_, Ichi. Maybe your heart misses the midget," I stage whisper, choking back laughter, "What part of your body did you think I was referring to? What a perv!"

Putting his quick reflexes to use, Ichigo's arm shoots out to grab my head, tucking it into the crook of his elbow. In a detached way, I consider it impressive that he can drive and wrestle me at the same time.

The gesture tugs my whole body over, my face pressed into his side - sort of a hug for the emotionally retarded. Ichigo grunts, needling, "Oh, so little sister has jokes, huh? Well then, maybe I shouldn't have driven for two hours to pick you up from tryouts because you'd already left when I called this morning to say good luck. Maybe I shouldn't have listened to Goat Chin piss and moan for three hours, waiting for you to get your ass home. Oh no, instead, I should be eating Yuzu's food and… um, _loving_ Ruk, hmm?"

"Arg, loving? Just say 'hearting' in mixed company," I shriek between giggles, wishing I could shrink my head at will so I can pull it out of Ichigo's hold. Finally, wriggling away, I return to my initial line of inquiry, "So that's what you meant by 'here.' You're in Karakura to visit, but you came to school to pick me up because I'm the big draw in this town. Who knew I was so special?" It's true that I feel absurdly special, moved and loved, but not, if I'm honest with myself, all that surprised. Ichigo and I have always had something unique going on between us, a bond I treasure. If Yuzu is the other half of my world, then Ichigo's the sun. He lights me up without even trying, and he's the only person in front of whom I feel comfortable showing my weak side.

"Something like that," Ichigo allows, almost like he's agreeing with my thoughts as well as my words. Then he releases me completely, letting me go so I can breathe properly.

After a span of silence, just enjoying having him next to me, I ask, "How's life in the big city? How's Chad and Uryuu?" I don't really care all that much about Uryuu, but I love Chad. He's one cool dude with his mad guitar skills and teddy bear disposition. When I was eight, Chad and I got stuck in an elevator for three hours, and he's been my favorite of Ichigo's friends by a large margin ever since.

"Uryuu's alright, but it's weird living with someone so… meticulous. He reads his textbooks all day everyday and ignores me most of the time which is good, but we had a sticky patch while he was coordinating all the linens and curtains and such. Thank god, it passed when he realized Chad and I are lost causes. What self respecting dude cares about 'draperies,' I ask you? And Chad... well, he's just Chad." Ichigo grins into the last words, obviously pleased that some things never change.

I grin too, imagining the three of them to be the funniest grouping ever assembled. I suppose most friends have more in common, but growing up in a small town severely limits selection. It warms me to know that moving to 'the big city' hasn't hurt their relationships.

As we near home, Ichigo and I share eager glances, anticipating the moment we walk in the door. Yuzu will be in rare form because the whole family is together for Friday Feast after months apart. "Rukia coming over?" I wonder absently, watching the familiar scenery fly past the window.

"Nope," Ichigo replies evenly, expecting the question. "She's got a benefit thing at the hospital with her parents, but she'll probably show up later."

"Hmm. More like '_defiantly_ will show up later,'" I amend. My thoughts meander, bubbling out of my mouth with rare effortlessness, "Ishida General Hospital… it's wonder Dad isn't dragging us - you know he loves to gatecrash. I guess most of the family's gonna be there tonight. Aunt Yoruichi's expected to show her face at shit like that."

"Pst," Ichigo agrees, speculating, "Bet you twenty bucks Uncle Kisuke wears that damn hat with his tux."

I nod, snickering, "I don't take fixed bets," and unbuckle my belt as our house-clinic comes into view on the right.

Parking in the driveway, Ichigo pouts a little, reflecting sadly, "Wish she could come here now though. She hates those stuffy parties."

Sardonic, I agree, "Especially when you're not there to entertain her, eh? With all your fumbled niceties and piss-poor manners." To which, Ichigo only purses his lips sullenly.

We split my burdens, Ichigo taking the weightier share over my feeble protests, and I'm thankful for it because as I amble up the walk my exhaustion intensifies. Gathering the last of my strength, I breathe deeply and prepare to evade Goat Chin.

"Hey, kid. Move it or lose it. Dinner's probably ready," Ichigo informs me, looping an arm around my torso and lifting me off the stoop. Chuckling a bit, I turn the knob and open the door for us. Quizzical, he guesses, "Tatsuki killed you, huh? Not surprising, really. Go take a shower and then tell me all about it," as he places me on my feet.

Foggy headed, I leave my stuff at the foot of the stairs and march up them like a good sister. I catch sight of Yuzu flinging herself at Ichigo right before I turn down the upstairs hallway.

Seeing my reflection in the mirror above the sink, I grimace derisively. My hair's matted with dirt and sweat, falling out of the rubber band at weird angles. There's bits of leaves and blades of grass knotted in it, and my clothes themselves are covered in grass stains and mud.

After showering, dressing, and throwing my favorite pillow on my old bed in Yuzu's room - Ichigo's staying for a few days, so _my_ room has reverted to _his_ room - I drag myself down to the dining room, where the smell of oregano and tomatoes beacons my empty stomach.

"She lives!" the old man exclaims the moment I appear. "And with such impeccable timing! Only twenty minutes late."

"Bite me," I mutter, picking up a slice of garlic bread from a platter and sitting down next to Yuzu at the same time. Ichigo smiles as if nothing could please him more than hearing me abuse our father over a meal cooked by Yuzu.

Inevitably, the topic of soccer tryouts surfaces mid-way through the lasagna. "So, how'd it go?" Ichigo asks with his mouth full, "You get in or do I have to call in a favor?"

Yuzu raises her fork at him warningly, but no one says anything. They just look over at me, genuinely curious.

Clearing the cheese from my throat, I hedge, "I... did well, I think. Better than most people anyway. I left it on the field, you know? I gave it everything, so it's out of my hands." As an afterthought, I threaten, "If you say one word to Tatsuki about the team or my place on it, I will tell Rukia where you hide your baby book."

Ichigo looks from me to closest under the stairs to the telephone with evident alarm. "I was only messing with you," he sputters, "I wouldn't seriously call Tatsuki about this either way."

Considering my words carefully and watching Ichigo flounder red-faced, I decide he's only being partially honest, "Think of this as insurance, then."

My dad jumps in enthusiastically, "I think it's wonderful to treasure your baby books, a place where you can keep all your baby pictures and a lock of hair from your first hair cut and your first baby tooth to fall out and tiny hand and foot prints. Don't you and Yuzu have one?"

Of course, we do, under my bed in a cardboard box of winter sweaters.

"I…" Yuzu stutters, glancing at me warily.

"Can it, Goat Chin," I grumble. "Even if we do, you'll never see it. So what's there to wonder?" Who knows what horrors I'd unleash if I let it fall into Goat Chin's hands? He'd try to paper the walls with baby pictures of us in the tub or something equally revolting.

Dad's bottom lip starts to tremble, and his eyes flood with tears. Slowly, he stands, the clang of his fork and knife against the plate very dramatic. "I can see that I'm not wanted," he wails, swaying, "I'm not loved by our children, Masaki. They're too old to need their father, who brought them into the world and taught them everything they know. I'm just… an annoyance, a burden, a relic of years gone by."

Ichigo doesn't miss a beat. "Bravo, Dad. You're finally getting it." Then, turning to me, he asks, "How'd you manage to force him past denial? I've been trying to brake his spirit for years."

Friday Feast is boisterous, too loud and too violent to be considered healthy by normal standards, but it feels just right to me. Seeing my brother sitting at the other head of the table puts me at ease, and I notice little things I missed when he was gone. They hit me in strange ways at odd moments throughout dinner. No one sits in Ichigo's chair when he isn't here, not even guests who come over for meals on occasion. Conversation runs smoother and fuller when Ichigo is here to scowl at my dad's bad jokes and to rain complements down on Yuzu's fine cooking. Our family revolves around him, and he doesn't even know it.

Later, as I lie awake, content to listen to Yuzu's sleep-heavy breathing, I marvel at the feeling of wellbeing lulling me to sleep and the knowledge that my most precious people are under the same roof tonight. _I'm one lucky girl, aren't I?_

When I shuffle down the stairs in the morning, yawning hugely, I find Rukia sitting at breakfast wearing a pair of Yuzu's pajamas. She exudes the air of one belonging there, and it makes me grin, thinking of the changes a year can make, how quickly the shock of Rukia's upgrade from pseudo-cousin to defacto-sister faded into 'no big thing.' "Why don't you ever wear my PJs?" I ask her jokingly, ruffling her ink bangs. She flushes, but only a little, frowning and batting my hand away good-naturedly.

After a chorus of "good morning" and one "pass the syrup" from Goat Chin, I tuck in, watching the Ichigo and Rukia fight over the last strip of bacon. Their sword fight of forks, each trying to spear the little morsel, is strangely sappy, and when Yuzu comes flying to the rescue with a new batch of bacon, Ichigo and Rukia almost look disappointed, like the battle was more important than the spoils. Dad, too, finds this particularly amusing, asking, "What will you do when your kid wants the last piece of bacon?" from behind his newspaper.

As the conversation devolves into bickering, flying fists, and blushes, I steal the sports section from Dad's lax grip and disappear into the columns of stats, perusing the articles that interest me.

After eating and washing up, Ichigo joins me in running as is my routine - which was _our_ routine before he left for college. We pass Mr. Kaname and a few early risers, enjoying each other's company and fine weather. We forgo the park, though. I'd love to just pal-around with Ichigo all day, but I won't deprive Yuzu, Goat Chin, and Rukia just to have him to myself. So, we wheel around at West Gate, hurrying back to the chaos I usually run from.

I smirk ruefully, admitting to myself - and promising to deny it to anyone else - that there are things you don't appreciate nearly enough until they change. Eyeing my brother jogging beside me, I amend,_ Or until they go off to university_.

As we pass the store fronts and homes of our neighbors and friends, I wonder what Ichigo feels when he watches Karakura disappear in the review mirror of his black jeep. It must be exhilarating to break out of the hamster wheel but sort of sad too.

As if sensing my mood, Ichigo suggests, "Want to stop off for a smoothie on the way home?"

"Yeah, I'd like that." I bump his hip, adding cheekily, "You're buying though." There's extra spring to my step as we continue down the sidewalk because I'm pumped I get to spend a little more time with him by myself, happy he wants to spend time with me too.

But the peace isn't meant to last. My dread of Ichigo's inevitable departure and tryout-result-nerves hit me full force in the wee hours of Sunday morning in the form of restless dreams. Sunday has always been my least favorite day of the week because I loath thinking of all the shit I have to do the coming week without the conciliation of logging any of the corresponding hours, and this particular Sunday is excruciating.

At least, Ichigo stays for lunch, and Yuzu likes that. Dad seems to like it even more because he seizes the opportunity to land a hit on his beleaguered son at least once before he leaves. Too bad, Ichigo has surpassed the old man.

For my part, I'm… ambivalent.

"Call me when you get the news either way, yeah?" Ichigo says to me as he loads his overnight bag into the back of his jeep. The request is only a formality because he knows I will. "And let me know if Goat Chin drives you to suicide. I'll talk you down off the ledge." Ichigo smirks gloatingly, lording his get-out-of-jail free card over me.

"Oh, shut up," I mutter, playing along with the old routine. "Go ahead and leave me here. I can take it. I'm made of stronger stuff." I proceed to flick him the bird, which he ducks metaphorically speaking.

In the end, I'm proud of Yuzu for holding it together - she doesn't start blubbering until Ichigo makes it to the end of the block. Conversely, Goat Chin has been crying on and off the whole damn morning. Their differing approaches are gifts for Ichigo, both of them trying to make it easier for him to leave. Well, easier to _leave the house_ because he isn't leaving town just yet - Ichigo is planning to stop by Rukia's for a "minute" to say goodbye, which equates to three or hours in non-puppy-love time.

_Dog years._ I chuckle at my own inside joke, earning two bewildered stares from my teary-eyed sister and father. "Come on, you two crybabies," I command, shaking my head and dragging them inside, "What's with this funeral-like atmosphere?"

I'm proud of myself too.

Instead of bumming it of the remainder of the day, I hammer away at assignments, working three times harder than I usually would, and I read ahead in textbooks, hoping to gain an edge. Anything to avoid any soccer related thoughts.

But the restlessness of Sundays solidifies as the hours roll past, and sleep isn't easy tonight. Somewhere between eleven and sunrise, I end up on the roof because my bedroom isn't big enough to contain my nerves over making the team. Sleeping on an angled roof isn't sane, I admit. But I don't really sleep at all. I sort of blink in and out of consciousness all night, too hopped up on anxiety to feel tired.

Likewise, I don't eat anything for breakfast on Monday morning, too full of anticipation to feel hungry. Yuzu doesn't comment and Dad doesn't complain, for which the not-self-absorbed fifth of my brain is grateful.

I gulp thickly as I close the door behind Yuzu and I, eying the soccer ball I'm not taking to school today, wondering if I'll be taking it tomorrow.

The two conflicting emotions stealing my sleep and appetite, anxiety and anticipation, affect the pace of my trip to school too. I alternate between walking so slowly I lag and walking so fast I nearly leave Yuzu behind. But when we arrive, my pride overrides everything else; I won't be coward, avoiding the unavoidable.

I head straight for the athletic' bulletin board hanging in the administration office. And I search for my name on a sheet of paper headed:

**_Official Roster For the 2010-2011 Karakura High School Soccer Team_**

Mixed in a list of twelve players - which includes Apache Torres, Lilynette Stark, and Yachiru Zaraki - I find what I'm looking for: my name in between Ryō Kunieda and Mahana Natsui.

_**Karin Kurosaki**_

An addendum at the bottom reads, '_Congrats team! Practices begin on the 17th. That's this Thursday at 4:30 PM. See you there. ~Coach Tatsuki Arisawa~'_

Elated, truly hyped beyond mere words, I run out of the office so fast several students bend around me to see what I'm running from or to. One huge, hard faced upper classmen yells, "Where's the fire?" as I rush past, but I keep running until I find myself it to the front of school, panting at the top of the drive. The urge to scream, to do cartwheels, to break out singing - _I might be overstating things_ - nearly routes my composure.

The tension distracting and binding me since the beginning of the school year finally frees me, and, in its place, I feel both hopeful and confident.

And when I spin on my heel to take in Karakura High School, I see it as _mine_ for the first time.


	13. 12 planned progression

By the time I regain my sanity, tamping my thrill in making the team to a less manic level, it's nearly time for the bell. The world didn't stop just because I was having an epic moment, and I doubt Mr. Ciefer will look kindly on the class representative being tardy.

Hence, I book it, grinning wryly. Because I can't help myself, I pause at the open door of Yuzu and Yachiru's homeroom, shooting them both a victory sign. Yuzu's reflective smile warms me to the core, and Powderpuff actually clambers up onto her chair and does a little shimmy in my direction.

_Oh, crap. we were supposed to victory dance together if we made the team._

Giving up on stealth because their whole class is now watching me curiously, I act before I can talk myself out of it, doing an awkward and very short little jig in place. Then, before I can humiliate myself further, I run away, the howls of laughter behind me quickening my steps. Still, I can't help but laugh as well; the relief and excitement I feel far outweighs my mortification. Unfortunately for my reputation, the whole situation seems even funnier as I near 9A, and I receive quite a few wary looks from stragglers as I dash past chuckling to myself.

The bell rings as I literally skid into Mr. Ciefer's classroom, half giggling, half panting. My whole class pauses to stare agog, their attention seized by my flashy entrance. Several people raise brows as if to ask if I've lost my mind; others wear concerned expressions as if worried I'm having some kind of episode.

And that makes me laugh harder.

"Kurosaki," Mr. Ciefer intones repressively, "Contain yourself. I know it's not in your family's nature to adhere to decorum, but this is a bit much... even for you."

That effectively kills my mirth, forcing me to defend myself and my family from this killjoy's barbed tongue. "No, I... But..," I flounder of a second, "it was funny... the dancing - my powderpuff - I mean, Yachiru... um, I made the soccer team... is all."

I finish lamely, and my cheeks burn under the uncomprehending gazes studying me. The silence is heavy in my ears.

"Kurosaki, I have a list from the guidance department for you," interjects a smooth voice from the center of the throng. "Dr. Hirako asked me to give it to you this morning. You just have to pass it around and have everyone sign their names next to time-slots for start-of-term appointments." Then, I see Toushirou stand from his desk lithely and slip between the rows to hand over the aforementioned papers. When he reaches me, he adds under his breath, "Pull it together, Kurosaki," but I'm too stunned by his intervention to reply. I can do little more than clear my throat and nod, blindly perusing the list of names he gave me.

As if a spell has been broken, the rest of our classmates begin talking amongst themselves again. Ururu and few other acquaintances gather around me to offer their congratulations on making the team. Even Lilynette gives me a nod of acknowledgment as we are now officially teammates. But I have a hard time keeping up with the conversation.

The remainder of homeroom takes on a surreal quality, and as I absently read a string of announcements and pass around hand-outs, my eyes lingering on Toushirou speculatively. I'm not prepared for the rush of gratitude I feel toward him, nor do I weather my intense consciousness of him with grace. It's not the sort of discomfort I can shrug off easily, and I'm rendered clumsy by it.

To quell the coresponding stomach-jumping sensation, I turn to the list Miyuki Unohana placed on the podium at the front to check that everyone has signed it and that no one has double booked. Immediately - oddly - I notice Toushirou's name is nowhere to be found. I take two steps toward his desk before berating myself. _I didn't even check to see if anyone else is missing. Stupid. _However, after running down the names twice, it's clear that Toushirou is the only one who did not sigh up for a meeting with the guidance counselor.

Mentally arming myself to talk to him, I'm visited by an echo of my feelings on my way to school, anxiety and anticipation. And like this morning, I refuse to be defeated by them. "Hitsugaya," I call over the restless muttering and shuffling, attempting to sound official, "Can you come here for a sec?"

Toushirou merely looks up from a book, perplexed. When no explanation for my request is forthcoming, he merely stands with a sigh.

As he leans over to grab his bag, the bell rings to change to 1st period, and the class, too, rises with much more noise than is warranted. They queue up at the door, thereby blocking the object of my thoughts from view. When Ururu angles to meet me at the blackboard, I wave her off on impulse, silently promising to catch up with her with a fleeting smile.

To my surprise, Toushirou arrives next to me without my noticing, carrying my school bag and lunch box in his arms as well as his own. "Here," he says when I make no move to them, "Your desk is only two down from mine, and I thought..." He trails off meaningfully, and again, I'm touched, perhaps even more so than the gesture merits.

"Thank you," I answer, taking my bag and box, "For now and especially for earlier." Looking into his face makes me feel strange, so I direct my next words to his shoes, "Though, I don't know why you did it."

"Seems you don't know why I do anything I do," he rejoins lightly, just a jest or the like to break the tension radiating off me.

My gaze flickers up to his eyes, finding nothing worse than confusion, maybe a little bemusement, there. He doesn't think I'm awful or nutty despite my erratic behavior toward him, and I'm surprised by how happy this discovery makes me. "Too true," I yield distractedly, "Anyway, I noticed you didn't sign the guidance appointment sheet. Can you do it now, so I can drop it off today?"

"Oh, that," Toushirou replies with sudden understanding. His expression sours marginally. "I... well, I already met with Hirako, so there is no need. You can just turn it in as is."

Finding that strange -_ who'd go there unless they were forced_ - I wonder aloud, "Really? Why?" But seeing chagrin bloom in Toushirou's face, I backpedal, "Sorry, I didn't mean to... Um, you don't have to tell me. I was just curious, not that I think you need, like, pychyatric help or anything. I just wondered if he's any good? I've not met him yet, but my uncle - the headmaster, I mean - speaks highly of him. Not that I'm suggesting either of you are experts on subject!" Because my babbling is beginning to grate on my own nerves - I don't even want to think of what I'm doing to Toushirou's nerves - I whip 'round toward the door. "I'm going to shut up and go now," I mutter, realizing with detached derision that I'm more embarrassed by this two minute exchange than my giddy display in front of my entire class.

To my surprise, Toushirou falls into step beside me, though he leaves a bit more space between us than would friends. The halls are relatively quiet because almost everyone has made it to their first classes, so I have no trouble hearing him when he murmurs, "You should relax a little, Kurosaki."

That, coming from him, rings of hypocrisy, and I call him on it, "That's ridiculous. I've never seen anyone work as hard as you do."

"What are you talking about?" he scoffs mildly, just a throw away comment, a ploy to change the subject.

But I'm not so accommodating. "I'm talking about you, of course," I argue, fighting off my lingering disquiet, "I've watched you. I get that you're a genius or whatever. You're naturally good at lots of things, but still, I can tell you put effort into your work too. I... I'm the same in some ways, so it's easy to recognize. I wasn't looking for it, but... you're not as clever or smooth as you think you are at hiding it." I watch Toushirou peripherally, metaphorically holding my breath, waiting for him to yell at me or something.

For a minute, he is silent and thoughtful, seemly unwilling to reply. But then he sighs, and there is concession, surrender, in the sound. Turning to me slightly, he admits, "We should give you more credit, Kurosaki. Apparently, you're more insightful than either of us thought."

Pausing in front of the door of Mr. Chōjirō's classroom, I study Toushirou with sidelong. I take his words at face value, aware that I've observed him more closely than he could possibly imagine, more than I would ever have him know. Still, I want to know him better. Though it is not his way or intention, I'm charmed by him, his smallest kindnesses, both unlooked-for and without expectation of reciprocation or gratitude. I'd be asking too much of myself to stop thinking of Toushirou as an opponent, but I'd like to believe we could be friends if I could break through the reluctance he carries with him like a talisman. "... I know _what, _but I still don't know _why_. But, then again, you'd be boring if you were easy," I argue vaguely, smiling a bit at the prospect of ferreting out his secrets. Toushirou just rolls his eyes, but I count that as an improvement. At least, he isn't trying to dissuade me.

The new almost-friendly atmosphere between us endures as the day progresses. Our eyes met four times between English's stupor and Math's torpor, and Toushirou's mouth quirks into a smirk every time, each surer than the last. And during lunch, I notice, Toushirou leaves his phone in his pocket, choosing instead to scrutinize a sheet of loose leaf, apparently pointing out all of Rukia's mathematical errors with a vaguely superior expression.

Watching him, I smile proudly because he's talking. Actually talking to me, to her, to somebody. But Lilynette catches me, her knowing expression insufferable, and then her bright eyes flicker to Rukia's table like a silent threat. After that I resolve to keep my attention focused on my friends for the remainder of lunch.

Thankfully, the conversation revolves around the recent acceptance of three of our number into the soccer team, and my sizable grin between mouth-fulls is easily misinterpreted as excitement. But lunch can't last forever. Fifth period history promises to bored me, but I will endure it somehow.

"I'd like your fullest attention," Mr Tessai calls to us in his deep voice, "I am assigning a project which will account for one fourth of your first quarter grade."

We all sit up straighter, listening closely, daydreams screeching to a halt mid-plot. My world history class is an honors course, populated by the overachieving and the naturally brilliant. For the average student, school projects are cruel and unusual punishments—forced labor without pay. However, _we _are the future king and queens of the world. The upper crust of academic meritocracy. Completing school projects is the metaphorical equivalent of 'battling for the kingdom.' An opportunity to prove one's dominance and make the completion doubt theirs. Another form of bloodbath war, our swords cleverly disguised in paper mashe.

No matter the medium, I hate to lose.

Mr. Tessai adjusts his glasses, sighing, clearly unfazed by our suddenly hungry expressions. "As it will count as your exam, it will be due exam week. That give you the entire semester to complete this assignment. Do not waste it," he explains, "The theme of this project is Karakura history." Mr. Tessai turns to the black board, pulling down the white projector screen.

"Lilynette, hit the lights, would you?" he requests with a distracted air, flipping through transparencies. From her desk - the desk closest to the light switch - my soccer rival rises with exaggerated effort like the action is such a chore. Still, Lilynette does as she is told without comment.

The projector wheezes to life. Slightly out of focus, the words _'Local Lore and Native Culture'_ superimposed on a picture of Karakura Town Hall flickers on the projection screen.

"Alright," our teacher nods to himself, fiddling with the resolution dial. He informs us, "You will pick a myth from Karakurian mythology or an element of aboriginal culture and prepare a presentation for class."

"Now," Mr. Tessai says, changing to another transparency, "an example - which you may not use - the legend of the Twin Sword Brothers." An ancient painting of two boys dressed in white and blue, standing back to back and holding two swords each, appears on the screen. "As I'm sure your grandparents or parents have already told you the story, I will try not to bore you. So, these two boys, the Fish and the Flora, studied the arts of war under the Fire Master. They grew to manhood, earning the reputation of the two strongest fighters of their generation. Both men welded a pair of unequaled weapons; their mission was to protect pure souls from the shadows of evil."

The girl behind me whispers, "Like Stark, what a bitch!"

I couldn't agree more. Lilynette's my-mommy-is-a-teacher-so-I-rule-by-default attitude is a major turnoff. Her popularity is in the can.

"During the epic Winter War, the brothers fought fiercely in the sky above Karakura. Noticing an enemy aiming for his partner's back, the loyal Fish intercepted the blow, sacrificing his life to protect his friend. As the mortally wounded Fish fell from the sky, the fierce Flora smite the enemy, his twin swords striking true. Grief stricken, he buried his brother beside the pond where they swam as children with all four of their blades. The lonesome brother spent the rest of his days watching over the grave. It is said, so strong was their brotherhood, not even death could separate them. The dead brother was reborn as a koi fish, and the living brother was transformed into a weeping willow, its branches falling into the water to be near the koi fish."

Mr. Tessai asks, "Does anyone know the enduring traditions connected to this myth which have been assimilated into modern culture?"

A collective eye roll. Everyone knows the answer.

My reflexes sharp as tacks, my hand shoots into the air a fraction of a second before any other.

"Yes, Karin," Mr. Tessai calls.

_Score me!_ Slightly smug, I answer, "The Festival of Spring Storms. The myth tells us that when the brothers fought, their powers affected the atmosphere. The Fish's swords created lightening in the sky, and the Flora's swords were reputed to roar like thunder. As all things are renewed in spring - the fish and flowers - we celebrate the brothers' harmony and sacrifice to this day."

Mr. Tessai opens his mouth, no doubt, to congratulate me; however, he turns his attention to someone else, saying, "I see a thought fighting to get out, Mr. Hitsugaya. Do you have something to add?" And Wiki-wonder's textbook-ish tones acquiesce, "Additionally, the custom of burying the dead with mementos of the living and sprinkling rose petals atop the grave arises from this legend." At the moment, he's so unawesome.

Thus far, today has been marked with small victories. Much progress. We walked to class together. We haven't smile-smirks each other four times. We even _talked,_ goddamn it!

Alas, the good times never last.

I swivel in my chair, glowering at him furiously. To which, he merely smirks, informing me, "I know someone who knows the legend better than most."

Because I don't care, I don't ask. Instead, I huff disdainfully, turning back to face front.

"Exactly," Mr. Tessai says approvingly, beaming at us, "Bravo, you two!"

Quitting the digression, our teacher apprises us of the particulars, "After you choose a topic, conduct research and interview at least two residents. Synthesizing the information you collect, write a paper - of no less than fifteen hundred words - and design a visual aide - poster, model, or costume. Etcetera. You will present both to the class during exam week," ambling over to the light panel on the far wall.

Mr. Tessai flips the switch, quite pleased with the situation, expanding, "This project will be completed in pairs. Because you are now high school students, I trust you to partner up at your own discretion. But, before you start moving, I need to hand out the rubric." He walks behind his desk, rifling through a jumble of papers, and then hands a sixth of them to the person at the head of my row.

Expression dark, I feel especially mutinous. Aside from the soccer pitch, I don't like working in pairs or groups. Especially on school projects. I'm a very particular person, so compromise is always a struggle. Nothing less than the best will do. My project has to make all the other projects blush, humiliated in comparison. My project has to kick ass and leave no survivors.

Midori Tono hands back my rubric, and I almost rip it out of her grip. She glances over her shoulder, baffled by my roughness.

"_What_?" I mutter bitterly.

Blushing, Midori turns back to face front quickly and without comment.

_Fucking wonderful! I'll add 'scary' to all my other glowing attributes._

Returning to the problem at hand, I start brainstorming, planning some miraculously escape from the 'group' part of this project. Desperate, I eye my handout closely. The prompt does nothing to brighten my mood.

_'Because this project is designed to help you get to know your peers, working alone is prohibited.'_

_Well, fuck._ There goes Plan A: begging Mr. Tessai to let me work alone.

So, I need a Plan B. I glance at the bespectacled man shrewdly, revising my method of attack.

Perhaps, I can work with a student in another class, but we can present our project separately. Pairing up with Ururu - she's in another honors section - wouldn't be awful. We worked well together running Urahara Candy Confectionary over the summer.

Hmm_._ I read the rest of the prompt, skimming the sentence, _"As the point of this assignment is to acquaint you with your neighbors, I encourage you to branch out."_

_So, no. I'm screwed._

Pissed, I watch my bespectacled teacher hand the final stack of rubrics to Lilynette at the front of the last row.

Sweeping the rest of the faces in the room, I have to wonder what Mr. Tessai means by 'branching out' because I've known most of these kids for years. And I'm not impressed by the turnout. Rendered miserable by my thoroughly untenable options, I ignore the chattering voices, all of them picking teams.

I also ignore the speculative looks directed at me. As I know them, they all know me. I'm a hot commodity in academia.

My eyes fall on Toushirou Hitsugaya sitting one row over and two desks up. With no small curiosity, I wonder how many classmates will trip over themselves to snag Toushirou as a partner. No doubt, he'll be mortified by the attention.

Mr. Tessai goes over the rubric I have already read, boring me, and so my thoughts wander, sketching an intriguing solution to my current problem. Without considering about it further - I'd only talk myself out of it if I did - I scribble a note in my binder, ripping out the paper and crunching it onto a ball.

_Aim, shoot, and score. _The paper-projectile hits Toushirou squarely on the back of his head just as Mr. Tessai peers down at his watch, instructing, "Class will end in ten minutes, so use the remainder to make all the necessary arrangements."

I don't even notice the jarring sound of chairs scraping against the linoleum floor or my classmates rushing here and there and everywhere. Instead, I watch Toushirou bend over my note, his head tilted slightly.

Then, he turns to me, brow raised in that absurdly communicative way only he is capable of. Odd, how much a single expression can say. His face is perfectly puzzled, faintly incredulous, begrudgingly impressed by my nerve.

Toushirou's gaze shifts away from mine for a moment, no doubt, counting the number of overeager students staring at him hopefully. Again, he glances down at my note, eventually half-nodding to himself.

My correspondingly grin can only be described as triumphant.

Without seeming to think about it too deeply, Toushirou stands, wending through the terribly disappointed stragglers hoping to land him as a partner.

I switch my focus back to my own fans currently crowding around my desk. Raising my hand to stay any further requests, I forestall them gravely, "Guys, I'm really sorry, but I already have a partner. So…" My voice trails off suggestively, hoping my self-satisfied delight isn't too apparent, and they begin to drift away.

"Excuse me," Toushirou says. I'd almost call his inflection formal, but then, his tone changes, settling somewhere in between confused and amused. "What is _this? _he asks, holding up my note by the corner.

Deciding to play along - _well, not really, because he isn't joking_ - I scrutinize the piece of loose leaf intently, replying, "I'm not completely sure, but I think it's paper."

Just as I knew he would, Toushirou frowns, annoyed, rolling his teal eyes. "I'll be more specific then. What do you mean by it?" He places the scrape of paper on my desk, smoothing it out for emphasis.

Idly, I reread my message, congratulating myself for my cunning. Clearly my throat importantly, I read it aloud, _"So, Smarty Pants, you got a perfect score on entrance exam. Well, guess who got the second highest score. Yes, that would be me, Karin Kurosaki. You're the only person in this class who's up to my standards, and you couldn't do any better than me. You know I'll work as hard as you. Thus, I conclude: Be my partner. PS: I totally nailed you in the head, didn't I? My aim is true." _I look up at Toushirou, smirking. "I think the meaning is pretty clear, don't you?"

Rather than argue the point, he only glares into space, mouthing the words, "Smarty Pants" like a question.

Resting my chin in my palm, I wait for him to come back to earth, anxious for an answer but bravely hiding it. Gaze sweeping the room, I cheer inside because nearly all of the other students have begun working - an integral stage of my unassailable Plan C.

Toushirou's narrowed eyes do the tennis swivel from my note to me and back. I can practically see the wheels in his brain spinning, his drive to succeed warring with his less than stellar opinion of my methods... and my sanity.

Eventually, his gaze settle on my face for a long moment, searching it intently. It's almost rude, definitely abnormal. I'm pinioned by the weight and diligence behind his startling eyes, and unbidden, my fascination and wonder yield to more secret, less familiar sentiments. My nerves zing, and for the first time, I admit to myself that Toushirou is rather beautiful. I wish I knew what he's looking for in my expression. I wish I knew what he finds there.

But too soon, Toushirou's eyes close, and he shakes his head slowly. "No," he decides, his voice deliberately impassive, "I can't be your partner. Sorry."

Toushirou's doing that thing again - assuming the same pathetically lost, utterly closed off posture he was sporting on that Saturday I nearly ran over him. And just like that Saturday, I'm not going to let him off the hook.

Half expecting this outcome, I planned ahead to circumvent it. Swallowing, I switch to the next phase of Plan C. "Well, that's too bad, Toushirou," I inform him acidly, "because everyone else already partnered up. So, you don't really have a choice." Watching vexation and suspicious bloom on his face, I add, "Face it, Smarty Pants. You're fucked."

I might be able to fool him but not myself. My bravado is completely fake. I had to trick Toushirou into working with me; I had to push him into corner. But Toushirou rejected me initially.

I won, but I feel like I lost.

Turn to my blank loose leaf, I start compiling a list of possible topics, ignoring him utterly.

Toushirou sighs heavily, defeated - _by me - _and pulls a nearby chair to my desk to sit down in front of me. He crosses his arms like a sullen child and glares at the top of my head. I suppose his glower is for my benefit - that he's hoping I'll look up and cower in fear. But he's in for a major disappointment.

The pause in conversation builds into a battle of wills. Who will break the silence first? Who will take to first step toward a truce?

Well, it sure as hell won't be me. I've already put myself out there and been roundly rebuffed. Right now, I sort of hated him. And as I chew on my pen cap, it occurs to me that my old hate - though, in hindsight, it wasn't _really hate_ - has changed, reaching some higher level on the emotional spectrum, because it's no longer based on wounded pride. I snort derisively, realization dawning. Toushirou has been upgraded from a splinter under my skin to a thorn in my side.

He managed the unthinkable. He hurt my feelings.

Apparently, I'm not the only one having an epiphany. Toushirou seems to have realized that he's in my dog house. He asks tightly, "Are you going to talk to me anytime soon?"

I shrug, accidentally stabbing a hole in my paper, and the silence drags on.

"Stop." His tan hand halts my angry scribbling, trapping my hand beneath it.

I jerk back, escaping the clutches of this boy who pisses me off more than anyone else in the world, trying desperately to hold on to anger because anger is safe. The tingles racing from my hand up my arm are not; these new feelings catching me, pushing me off-guard are anything but safe.

I look up to find Toushirou's face painted in confusion. Then, it abruptly clears. Thankfully, he's decided that my bizarre reaction is just another strange quirk of mine.

Toushirou turns his head away from me, gaze falling on our classmates hard at work. In a vaguely conciliatory tone, he asks, "Do you want to be my partner?"

My shock is palpable. "W-what?" I hear myself stutter.

With exaggerated slowness, he explains, "I assumed by your silence that your invitation to be your partner had been rescinded. So, I'm extending my own."

_Hmm, this must be what it sounds like when Toushirou apologizes._

His interpretation of the situation isn't quite accurate - I never rescinded my 'invitation' - but his way of looking things is better than I dared to hope.

Thinking quickly, inspiration hits. I smirk. "On one condition."

Toushirou turns back to me, expression wary. He studies my face for clues. Finding only riddles, he relents, "And this condition would be…"

I savor the moment, letting him stew in suspense. Unable to hold it in any longer, I demand, "Tell me why you let me win class rep, and don't say you didn't want it. I know that's not true."

Toushirou's giant teal eyes narrow, all his worst suspicions confirmed. "I told you to let it go," he reminds me sourly. Still, he doesn't lower himself in my esteem by deny my assertion that he wanted the position for himself. That, too, is progress. _Or, at least, I look at it that way._

I shake my head in the negative. "And I told you I wasn't gonna let it go. In fact, I'm sure I told you I'd get it out of you one day."

Toushirou scoffs, "Not today." Nothing in his posture, expression, or tone indicates compromise on this point. Thereby, further argument is rendered nil.

I suppose that's only fair after the stunt I pulled, hitting him in the head with the note and basically coercing him into being my partner.

"Whatever you say," I reply ambivalently, adding, "_Partner."_

Studying something on the wall behind me, Toushirou frowns in response to what he finds there. "We're nearly out of time - under two minutes before the bell. It's getting to be a habit with you."

Shocked, my eyes widen. "Shit. Shit. Shit," I chant under my breath, jotting half-baked ideas on my paper. As my hand flies across the page, I babble, "Take this and pick one or add one or tweak one. Then give it back to me whenever. We'll figure something out."

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see our classmates drifting back to their respective desks, packing up and sitting down, waiting for the bell to free us all.

"Listen," says Toushirou, ignoring my scribbled list and speaking quickly, "Are you busy Friday?"

Of course, I'm not.

Yet, I waffle, "I might be able to shuffle some stuff around. Why? What are you thinking?"

Toushirou nods, encouraged. "You know where Rukia lives, right? I live next door, so come over friday after school. We can discuss the particulars." The bell rings, shrill and alarming, and he jogs across the room to retrieve his school bag, calling over his shoulder, "Six o'clock, then? Around six?"

As he walks out of the door without waiting for a reply, I rise from in my desk, nodding numbly to no one in particular. Then, I jet to Spanish, wondering if this day could get better._Maybe the Starks will be have a family emergency, and I'll get a free period bask in this feeling a little longer. _If only, I could be so lucky.


End file.
